April

April began with me choosing the lighter coat and carrying the heavier one in my imagination all day. #

April. I said the word this morning while doing my makeup because apparently announcing the month to my own reflection is something I do now. The room was bright earlier than I expected and I stood there with mascara in one hand trying to decide whether the weather could be trusted. It could not, obviously. Amsterdam and I have known each other long enough that trust is unnecessary. I chose the lighter coat anyway. Small rebellion. Work was ordinary, pleasantly so. I spent the morning inside websites and the afternoon fixing something that turned out to be caused by a detail so small I wanted to laugh and throw the computer out of the window simultaneously. I did neither. Professional development. At lunch I noticed flowers outside and then kept seeing flowers everywhere for the rest of the day because April has apparently decided colour is back. On the way home I bought some. Of course. Pink tulips. I carried them awkwardly on the bicycle and felt like a visual stereotype of Amsterdam created by somebody with access to my personal preferences. Blonde woman, bicycle, tulips. Add canal. Done. At home I put them in water before taking my coat off, which tells you everything necessary about my priorities. Yuri came in later, saw them and said, «More.» «These are different.» «They’re flowers.» «Exactly. You understand.» He does not understand, but love allows uncertainty. We ate dinner with the tulips on the table between us. I kept looking at them. Fresh flowers change a room disproportionately. They make everything around them look slightly more intentional, even the pile of papers I have been meaning to sort. After dinner I called Mom and told her nothing important. That phrase has become one of my favourite things. Nothing important. Her day. My day. Something she bought. Something I cooked. Weather. Hair. The little fabric of staying in each other’s lives when geography has removed spontaneous physical presence. I don’t need every call to carry homesickness. Sometimes it is just Mom talking while I wipe the kitchen counter. That normality is precious. Dad and I exchanged something brief later. Three cities again. I opened the site after tea and looked at March sitting complete in the archive. April’s empty page waited. I used to find empty pages intimidating. Now they feel patient. They don’t demand something profound. They accept tulips. They accept lighter coats. They accept me sitting here in old trousers with my hair tied up while Yuri asks whether I have seen something that is almost certainly directly in front of him. April can begin like this. Pink flowers on the table, work finished, city outside, nothing missing from the evening except perhaps the heavy coat I spent all day expecting to regret leaving behind.

Remember me, Eclipse.