The morning after daylight savings begins, three weeks early this year. Waking to the darkness, I make coffee black, hot, strong. I need every sip.
The change in spring is harder than the one in autumn: the hour lost is missed, the hour restored spent without thought, an instant not an hour.
I was travelling with my sister in my dream, driving a narrow snow-packed road in Italy, when suddenly part of it diverges, becomes
a sharp rise with a steep drop at the side of the berm; we can’t backtrack to the main road. We see lights, a restaurant we were looking for;
though it’s late they’re still not serving. The road’s blind alleys, unexpected gifts, are offshoots of memory. An image comes from a novel I just
read: a room full of the sloughed off selves of the main character’s grown children. What about hers? Mine? Where is the woman I was, driving
that road with my sister two years ago? I find that vanished self in the pages I write, reiterated, stalled by an inability to break from the past.
While reading those pages I am plunged into a deep pool, still waters from which hours lost resurface, recovered, transformed, regiven.
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