I liked looking into your eyes when you were absorbed watching out from the window glass. You still looked like a child, with that expectation that shone in your face, hidden just by the collar of the wool coat.
With your brown hair, long enough to frame your face, and the clear eyes of who after all, in spite of everything, had never betrayed himself. How old were you? Thirty or ninety? You, who had lived experiences, and always fell in love with everything.
You waited for the first snow, as a blessing, as a good reason to cry, to hope, to believe in the return of something, that you knew to have left, like everything else, in the river of time… Continue reading “The First Snow”