Returning to old textures from a new life is a little discombobulating.
Was this couch always so slouchy, that serving bowl quite as large?
"When I was a kid the tractors were harder to drive."
Random memories fall out of boxes; an old rifle emerges from the top of a bookshelf in a cloud of dust. Old pictures in an assortment of rectangularity suggest something about life when their subjects were 10, 15, 32, 45.
And around them, the dwelling that holds these suspended memories breathes in its collective of rough-weave drapes, linoleum flooring, smoothed old leather, and the cheeriness of approaching Christmas.
Outside, lichen, a luminous green, clings to the bark. Trees sway in the winds of the shifting seasons.
