Long Evenings

When my brother and I cleaned out my mum’s place, I brought home a slab of fudge that she had made shortly before she died. She was supposed to come to Ontario that month, and my guess is that she’d planned to bring it for me as a surprise for my birthday. I just ate the last piece of it, and it reminded me of how long the evenings sometimes were when I was growing up. The sun didn’t just set, at least not in the summer. Instead, the light ebbed little by little, so gradually that you barely noticed it was getting darker until something—a store closing or a light coming on in a window—made you realize that another day had ended.

Time to make another cup of tea. If you came in peace, be welcome.