It’s early May, and the air is full of snow – it knows nothing of seasons and such tedious things, disregarding what might have been spring, neglecting the few whisks of green straining to break through the brown. Not that buds and such explode out of their shells here, like bubbles in boiling water, they pry their way out, slowly and cautiously.
I spend my days staring at walls. Noting the imperfections, the dirt where a desk slowly gnawed away the paint, the stains. I feel the texture, and waste away an afternoon examining my hands – I was no more than a girl when I realized I had an old woman’s hands. Long, straight fingers, lined and dry as parchment.
Even the snow feels dry as parchment, and I miss exploding, too.