Отрывок из книги
Hammer Head: The Making of a Carpenter (2015)
Wake, Siren: Ovid Resung (2019)
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The grandfather of someone I knew filled ice trays with pesto made from the basil in his garden so that in the cold crust of winter he could pull a tray out from the freeze, twist out a green-black cube, soften it with heat, and return to sitting shirtless at the table on the patio, limbs loosened. The buttery warmth, harvested and jarred, and spread on bread in winter. There’s warmth enough to look up when the sun’s down. And the sense, in summer, that there’s time enough to do so, too, time enough for all of it, in a languid, damp, and heat-fuzzed way. An atmosphere of, I’ll get to it but right now, a beer before dinner and warmth on bare legs, and everything can just go a little slower for a moment. The light lasts forever, life lasts forever. Do you feel young? I promise, the start of summer whispers, you are young.
Summer strums the loose low chords of freedom and release. Feel it in the space between your shoulders. It’s the nostalgic season, arriving all warm-breezed and verdant, putting its heavy arm around you and whispering, Come on, come on, remember? Let’s return to the screen door slamming, bare feet on the porch floor, peach juice sticky on the chin, sun on the back of your neck. You can return to a time of more time. Summer brings the memory of summer, a gentle flight backward. It’s the season when a person can feel their wingspan again.
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