The air flashing with tiny crystals that cross and shift with the direction of the wind, or in its absence rise and fall gently in tiny, lazy cyclones created by passing trams and warm air flowing from the doors of restaurants and hotels.
The snow orange and pink under the mercury lights like soft, loose piles of fish scales, gleaming and changing color.
Darius beneath lying beneath me on a sled. His body is the only warm soft thing in the entire night. I feel his booming laughter in my ribs. Through him I feel shape of the hill as we speed down with snow biting our faces.
Iris taking the vodka bottle from my ungloved hand, cupping her fingers around mine, blowing soft, warm and moist, till my numb fingertips tingle with returning blood.
Coming out of the theater after seeing “The Woman with 5 Elephants” ¬– a film about the translation of language but also about the translation of memory, experience, and nationality. Our English sounds alien against the background chatter of Finnish.
I think of the scene where the protagonist talks of ordering the threads of fabric as she irons. Another scene – her hand stroking the fabric of her tablecloth as she sternly grieves. I see shifting patterns in the cottony banks, in the snow moving across the street. I hear threads tightening, loosing, knotting, breaking in our voices and conversation.
The snow in the air never stops. I dream packs witches are sitting on the rooftops of the tall, linear Finnish buildings. They hold long bones and sharp knives in skinny fingers, scraping thousands of flecks of bone into the air.
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