The cold season is well underway, and suddenly several weeks have passed since my last writing.
I have been collecting words in my head in the meantime, making notes of the things to remember (EVAN, WE’RE MAKING A MEMORY, I have cackled, much to our friend’s chagrin). We have driven in the pre-dawn west, to Pittsburgh, under the inky sky, watching the sun rise purple above smokestacks, sky studded with cold stars, the enormous moon. We have gathered up donated darkroom equipment and driven back past stands of trees, the yellow and brown of daylight, November. We have listened to the trees twisting high above the roof of the little cabin and walked out to meet them, crawled onto the roof of the fiberglass shed with the Dinah dog, huddled under blankets, hands in mittens and pockets, laughing.
Days circled, rain and fog hung around the mountains, and the friends streamed in from east and west and south to meet at a wood-fired cabin at the base of a ridge in Williamsburg. For a time that was fleeting (too filled and ephemeral to sort through when one is newly returned to one’s cold, tall apartment), we slept in an enormous pile on the floor, four dogs of varying sizes circling at the base of the ladder below. A hike through the sun flooded forest above the cabin, the fire outside that burned for two nights and three days, the baby stacking cups, the hero, the toothbrush, the snow that clung to our hair and our clothes and the dead leaves outside as we drove over the mountain back down into the town, trading words without looking, descending to the parking lot where the ice wind blew, across the river from the cat who slept all weekend, waiting.
I am filled with squashiness, it can be stated.
Here are some pictures of where we have been.
I sip coffee, I see my breath. I love you; meow meow.