During the first term of school I remembered my sketching hand and recreated two scenes I wanted to remain in my memory, always. My eyebrows moved closer together deep with concentration. My peripheral vision created a dark tunnel where I could only see the flower stand in front of me across the street from the cafe or the Christmas tree adorned with homemade strung popcorn across from our couch. The first scene, a memory etched with pen into a notebook and the latter with pencil into the sketchbook ali bought my for Christmas last year.
Moving in the direction of art again. Art. A long awaited visit from an old friend whom I’d like to stay a little longer. Perhaps even move in, for when words elude me but thoughts are rampant. Painting was always a faithful friend. But I have now discovered that sketching is portable and aids in clearning my mind of rambles, creating a focus, much as does the fluid breath during yoga.
Snow! Snow! Snow! And good music. The backdrop to my own soundtrack of life, today it’s Regina Spektor and since I don’t want to miss a lyric, I pick up the pen to write rather than read. And because I want to remember the snow. And the way it makes my lips curl into a smile that only I know the reason for…
He wakes me softly, whispering into my ear “It snowed last night,” like a child on Christmas morning — who has woken before his parents to see the gifts gathered beneath the tree — he pulls me to the window. We wipe the layer of window sweat from the glass and the ground is white and soft with the feathery blanket of snow. It lies sleeping on the earth’s surface, exhausted from the journey down.
We smile and kiss, happy at our first snow in London. He guides me, groggy, back to bed for another hour of sleep before I have to wake for work. The snow will already be melted off the streets by then but still keeping the trees company.