Saturday, January 26, 2008


We were sitting by the fire. Father was in his usual chair, remembering stories. He was a wave separated from the ocean, a bent horse with a foamy mane. Then the fire grew big and Father disappeared, nothing but the taste of salt in our mouths.

Even the shadows shouted and wore boots. Even the doors shrugged, the windows broken and they too, becoming like salt.

The exhausted waves crawled from one shore to another, pretending to be rivers or rain. But Father, we believed, was an underground stream, alive with blind fish.

In the forest, we were leaves trying not to be noticed as the trees were cut and the sky became crowded with music.

The animals went over the edge of the world. The people went over the edge of the world. The countries became dark pools on an edgeless map.

The snow had melted. There were the tiny rebellions of the grass, the tips of Father’s fingers waving. There were the stories. ‘This is what happened during the war,’ they said.

(see more brilliant images by Marion Peck)

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