But I Can't Change Time

Sounds of winter struck the pipe outside my window this morning: sleet dripping heavily to the ground, undecisively. When the movie was over, we ran through uptown Christmas-lit streets to catch the bus before the cold entered our hearts. What pride struck my senses as the curtains closed, and I remembered what it is like to surround oneself with creativity. Everyday they sit at desks around me, as though that were all there was to them, and suddenly credits roll with their names and I am in awe. How light a heart inspired.

Back on the south island, we squeezed in to the back of the crowded, little bar, all warm soft wood and ancient dusty details along the walls. Ancient dusty details on the bar stools, at that, with thick beards and tobacco packets in a row. I felt at home.

You have to give it a shot, you know. You can't make a home when you have been here mere months, she said, and was right, of course. I must sit on that wooden bench, drink my beer, and let Stockholm sink into my every limb.

How new the friendship and already how dear. I anxiously await the dust to settle. Become a regular. I have to give it a shot.