LATE IN NOVEMBER

The most perfect November from all I can recall, calm and silent, foggy moist mornings, covering thick milky shroud of mist, steam from the marsh, someones breath. In the daytime the air is so tinkling and transparent, it feels like even a barely audible whisper can be heard miles away.

One day, I make myself coffee with cinnamon and ginger and go strolling. I sit on a swing, look up on birds nests and bare branches. One day, my old friend arrives in my city for 38 hours and we spend them in eternal talks about Life, the Universe, and Everything. Those night-and-day-talks with a short break for sleep, you know. 

I make pancakes, the silence is not tense, but soft and enveloping. I burn candles (Frosted Leaves, Birch, Mountain Lodge Fireside), I listen to an old Edith Piaf vinyl, I make the most necessary drink: sliced ginger, orange and a bit of apple in a mug, I add also a spoon of honey and fill the mug with boiled water, ready. I cook lentils and vegetables, I combine everything I find on my shelfs, I feel a bit like a witch, a bit like Douglas Spaulding's grandmother.