Rooftops, boat houses, church and weathervane covered with snow. A friend pops in, carrying a carton and something that looks like an oversized table tennis racket. Packed in the box: Freshly caught, big, red shrimps, his brother has been out fishing, way up north, close to the pack ice edge. The oversized racket: a frozen plaice that we share with friends from the other side of the village. Delicious fish.
Next: an invitation to a silver wedding anniversary. Gale-force winds, I manage to hop into the car, and then the wind slams the door. Jacket pocket: jammed. Inside: spectacle case, which turns out to be completely twisted. But lucky me. Reading glasses: still in one piece. Back home, I can’t find my scarf. Flashlight, searching the car. Scarf: no trace. Inside the house, thinking and out again, another try. And there it is, attached to a wire fence, fluttering in tempest.
Snow melting, more snow, sunshine and blue skies. The other day: walking down to our old harbor, my unofficial outdoor gym during the summer months. Watching the ocean, listening to the sound of the water. On my way back this feeling: when you know that it’s your footsteps, and yours only.
