Photo Story: Twenty-seven Winters
The first year here, when the trees soured from green into drought-yellow and dropped their leaves, their twiny bodies like the kindling I collected as a child, I said, “Everything has died.” You answered, in English, “It comes back.” And then it did.
When the snows came, blending horizon and sky the color of wet rice, chilling my fingers white like chicken bones, I said “I want to go home.” You answered, in English, “This is home.” Somehow it became.
Now, twenty-seven winters here, this snowfall is my first alone. Unlike every other year, I do not wish for spring.
Summer’s nearly here and our feet need special attention and care
L take
Wow. That’s all I can say. Wow. :’)
Nice
I also enjoyed this. The snows and the thaws, the growth and the dying, all beautifully expressed; I can see it happening.
I like this very much!
Excellent — there is so much here, and each facet is told so well.
This is lovely. Well done.
Evocative and sadly beautiful. Not one word wasted.
Beautiful writing. Love this.