The very notion of looking at news sites feels alien this morning. A huge longing for quiet and for a companionable presence. The tinkering of someone well known in the next room, for instance. The temporary – of course you know the quiet won’t last – the temporary easing of tension. No explosive devices, no divisive debates, no calls to arms, or petitions, or Action! Now!
Soon, of course, you’ll long for a bit of movement, or a comment. Soon, but not yet.
How long in this town now? Both the real and the fictional ones? Last night, I pushed back the hair on a little girl’s face. It hung like a curtain and she laughed behind it, the way very small children laugh when they know there’s a game involved in every small gesture. She’s now seven. I have photos of her very pregnant mother, a few weeks before the little girl’s birth.
So, seven years at least, in the real town. When I first came here, I thought I’d just be passing through.
Listening to other people’s stories last night. All of them French-born. Sharing a few stories with them about the rural and early-industrial times in my place of origin. A paternal grandmother from a brood of thirty-two children – the first wife died on the twenty-fourth, the second, on the eighth. A visit to her village of birth and the list of identical names on the family gravestone. One baby boy died? The next born picked up the same name. Every year, a little cradle and/or a little casket, as she said.
Bird song. Nesting season about to begin in earnest. On the way to choir practice yesterday, the first daffodils near the library – the ones bound to withstand a late snow flurry or a driving, freezing rain.
Sunday morning. The phone won’t ring – a blessing in itself. Where the story goes from here, I’ll learn as it happens.