a memory of summer in winter


Sometimes the middle of winter can seem more like summer than the summer ever did. In a moment or fragment of a moment when a smell or a sound or when the certain way that light is falling releases a disconnected memory which floats to the surface like a bubble, and then it would feel like the summer.

And you pause a while, caught wondering, but the memory isn’t even a memory but only the sense that there was a memory, and that you have known this once before. And by the time you’re realising or rememering this, the moment has already departed, and it no long feels like the summer, and the sun is setting.

But the moment seemed realer and bigger than all the summers passed, and you’d remember it, and you’d spend your life trying to remember it again.


Night Terrors (one for the cat)

Abed in the night-time I heard or thought I heard a strange noise. It was creaking, a moaning, like hinges or the rusty limbs of trees moving against each other. It might have come from anywhere; it came from outside the window, I thought.

Sometimes in bed I hear the jingling of a bell in the darkness beyond and then my heart freezes a little. I do not want to hear his paws scraping against the glass, making it shake.

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