Tonight, as I was helping my son to change into his pyjamas, I noticed that the tiny blond hairs between his shoulder blades grow in a spiral pattern. The same pattern that I saw long time ago in a shallow pool on the seashore. The same pattern that, whenever I notice it, anywhere, makes me feel at the same time important and insignificant.

Tonight I dreamt that I was saying good bye to my colleague. It was in a cafe with white walls and white furniture, near a large bright window. She was wearing a light wool top of light greenish blue, I never saw one like this on her, but it looked good. It was one of these strange vivid dreams where I was crying so hard that I felt my whole chest contract. The contraction lasted long after I woke up, laying very still, very quietly, thinking how I can be kind.

I picked up another book of poetry at the library. It wasn’t even planned. I was looking for something, anything, by Ross Gay. Turned out that something was his poems. Turned out that his poems are even better than his essays, which I dearly love. I am surrounding myself with layers upon layers of poetry. I am keeping very quiet. I am spending long time staring at my screen, thinking of everyone I want to write to, writing nothing. I am wintering.