Writing from outside and away from the area now, not quite self-imposed exile but with the place in the rear view mirror. What comes to mind; ghost roads, places only inhabited in memory, a distilled distance. A somewhat heavy thing to have a home and then not live in it. Circumstances, fate, who knows what controls our comings and goings?
Clearly space and time are connected as being far away throws spectral light on long years of residence. People, snippets of conversation, smell of certain hallways, the bank of various turns, particular potholes… funny what’s recalled of its own accord.
All the talk of shoveling slush reminded me of a time snow and ice slid off our roof and took the deck down. We were hanging out under there minutes earlier. The crashing sound of it coming down is unforgettable. A Real Vermonter came over to help, shored the wreckage. Really restored our sense of stability. One never knows the timing of things. A good reason to be kind and savor the moment, wherever we are.
