It's the little things, like unzipping my paint bag to discover that, though bursting with paints, it is void of brushes. Or this morning, when I ran to the highest point in my neighborhood and all there is, in every direction, as far as my eye can see: white, white blended into white into white, far across the lake in an infinite emptiness tinged with grey.
The thirst for some new combination of words I struggle to understand; the shock of sitting in a lecture hall with hundreds of people, a place I thought I left behind; the knowledge that this is the final piece of my education, drawing to an end.
It's the snowbanks, melted and dirty, the cold that nips at my eyes and the breeze that numbs my face, the brightness of scarves that make me smile; the coffee, cup after cup; the silence, words scratched on a page; the longing, the longing, the longing.
It's the rhythm of footsteps, pace by pace, the lingering unsaid of motion in the motionless. It's new piled on old, piece by piece and layer by layer.
It's everything and it's nothing and it's barely understood, so quiet as to seem missing.
It's the infinite peace of harmony, three- piece and an accordion, and the resounding silence of sleep in the stead of a day.
