Yesterday I found my grandmother's wedding ring. So small, gold, over 100 years old. As I slipped it over my finger I could see, in my mind's eye, the slight, frail woman, dead for more than 30 years, as clear as daylight. Objects hold echoes of all those who have touched them.
Walking with the cats as the snow began to fall my mind was full of characters. A man who sleeps beneath a quilt of live birds, small heart beats his lullaby. A woman who can tell the history of each object by touching it. A wolf faced gondolier in a twilight cloak of stars. Dragons.
Stacking logs, thinking of painting, wanting to write. Painting snow.