Archive: memory

[torquill]

I remember lying in the guest bed upstairs in my grandmother's house, the stiff cotton sheets and wool blankets brushing my skin, with all my senses straining for some light or sound. If I listened very hard, I could hear the stream which fed the house, or perhaps the rustle of leaves... but there was no light, and the darkness was so complete it was like a tangible thing. Those are my first memories of true dark, since we always had night-lights at our house, or at least the lights of the city. Up in the Oregon mountains, there was nothing but the birch trees murmuring to each other, and the stars.