Last night I was looking through the window at what looked like a cluster of marshmallows on popsicle sticks. I inhaled the brisk, snow-saturated air and it smelled of a quintessential winter wonderland. Standing there with my nose pressed to the net I caught a memory. It sped through the million tiny boxes of mesh into the warm interior of [Anya's first, then Masha's, now nobody's] room and there I placed it. Something about the scent on the air reminded me of winter as a child, the way winter felt under my fingers as I read fables and fairy-tales and stories about seasons.
I dug up the old storybooks and was swept up in nostalgia.
Vintage Russian/Ukrainian children's books are so whimsical and full of enchantment. I kept thinking that over and over as my fingers whirled the pages.
The Little Mermaid. I can't get over the otherworldly beauty of the artwork.
Lulled into a childlike wonder.
How everything looked to me at the end of my run with winters past.
No comments:
Post a Comment
Tell me what you're thinking.