It’s snowing. The view outside my window: soft grey-white at 5.26 in the evening. Thick spills of snowflakes float and fall according to the wind’s whim. Fuschia roses encased in clear cellophane hang to dry, upside down, against black venetian blinds, grey heather sky and outlines of buildings hazy in the distance.

My room smells like fish because daddy is cooking. I spilled tea that fell fragrant in a quick curtain down the table’s edge. The sky: grey powder blue. Lights glow faintly orange in the washed blue landscape. Outlines of buildings still faint. The sound of a child laughing rises eighteen stories.

6.08 evening: charcoal grey sky. Deeper grey silhouettes of buildings, luminous orange lights and soft spots of lit windows emerge. Time to go. Leave behind the wet table, the wet floor, and dried roses hanging above the windowsill.


I want to speak to you in a language that is not mine, words I swallowed when you were not looking. Outside, the wind tucks itself into your warm pockets. The streets are wet with melted snow, grey, like yesterday’s stormy skies. The sky has indeed fallen. We walk on transformed clouds leadenly moisture-laden on cement pavement. Pools of water with their still, slushy surfaces, deceptively deep.