AGNI
>Maybe memory must marry itself to imagination
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| Bob Ulrich @ Bomb Magazine |
Marilyn Abildskov recounts all those scenes of the mind that survive after loss @ AGNI.
Read Full Post | Make a Comment ( None so far )All winter that year we shared a small office and walked home together at night and I would think how strange it was, what I used to hear about you—how cold you could be, how distant: the quintessential Ice Princess, people said. But it was always from a distance, what these people observed.
Before I knew you—when you were just an acquaintance, a familiar face in the coffee shop or on the street—I met a woman at a party who said she thought you were very strange. She said the two of you had been good friends some time before but that you never spoke with her anymore, that you passed her on the streets of our small town and never looked up and all the while, she said, you wore that hat.
That hat! Apparently she’d given you that hat some winters before.
Sometimes when we walked home at night, I’d look at you out of the corner of my eye—you, so tall and thin and walking with such perfect posture and care—and I’d wonder if you knew what people said about you, how everyone seemed to be a little in love with you. But we never talked about it as we passed the coffee house we liked and the bars we never went into and the orange house where the noisy young drummer boys lived and then, finally, the small square park, the park that was brown and frozen in winter but whose grass would soon turn bright Easter-grass green. That’s when we knew we were almost to your house, a big white house where you lived in a second-floor apartment with your big fat cat Stella.
It was a very small winter hat—tight-knit, flecked in myriad colors—and it suited you.
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