Solstice

They are still moving, out there, forming signs in the sky, I am sure about that, even though I can’t see them. But I saw them this morning, when I went to the bakery: the little strings of smoke that were coming from the chimneys in small clouds.

It looked like the houses were breathing. In. Out. In. Out. Haze. Puff. Haze. Puff.



I could have stood there, on the street, watching them, yet the cold was creeping through my shoes already. So I walked back home, where I left the frost covered shoes at the door, and slipped into a second pair of woollen socks. Warm and cozy, just like the shawl I wrapped around my shoulders.

Then tea and toast, coffee and croissant. And the sun rising, just when I placed the tray on the bed. At 8.35. The latest sunrise of the year.

"Solstice," I whispered.

The beginning of winter. Yet, at the same time, the turning point of the skies, of the world. From days that grow darker to days that grow lighter.

“Solstice,” the sun answered, and moved across the horizon.