Making my bed only to crawl back in an hour later. Winter is too cold; the gray is too deep. Through blankets, through walls, through floors my brain sends signals: coffee – fire – chocolate. In the end I read something about landscape and desire. Am I contained or so free that I cannot move at all? I won't say.
I've thought about the cabin a million times – how it's situated a short distance from the creek and little hike from the inland drive. My old shoes, a warm jacket. Collected firewood and a tea kettle. There's an old quilt on the Jenny Lind bed whose asthmatic springs give a groan when you lie upon it. Dust motes on the only sunbeam to break through the canopy. A wool blanket drapes over the rocking chair in the corner. It's not summer or winter...maybe spring...maybe October.
For our 20th wedding anniversary, I asked for impossible yellow and Caribbean blue. He asked for me. The thing I remember most clearly about Mexican nights were the foreign constellations plunging daggers into my chest. The oceanic breezes whispered rhythms across my sunned shoulders, and wafts of cuban cigars mingled with the sea to bring me closer. To this.
Rain now instead of snow. The temperature difference is a relief. Every time I sprinkle cinnamon into my coffee I remember you saying, “way to fuck up a good cup of coffee.” Smile, sip, smile.
“It's not down in any map; true places never are.” Herman Melville. This heart-shaped island. This collection of fallen leaves. I miss the fragrance of wet pine and sugared sap. I miss cardinals and thin jackets and walking without the arctic burn of frost in my lungs. Who owns the deed to here? Only me through you.