Misty sheets of grey drizzle fall in ghost-like stillness past my window, while heavy drops patter against the metal awning above. Steam floats up from my Earl Gray as Chopin coaxes a nocturne quietly from somewhere far away, and Hemingway speaks to me wistfully of the streets in Paris. For a moment in the growing twilight, years fade and I’m carried to a far green land under somber skies, and I sit in the gloaming by a canal, waters still and black, and I remember.
I remember
Pearson Sharp 