On new books

Jillian Prendergast. Writer.

It is strange the way the right words come when they are needed. They heed the call from some far off shore and fly over blue waves and thermals  and other’s prayers to my window, into my ears. They blow in with the new November wind and linger in the folds of the new duvet cover as I listen.

The fabric feels the same but is dark blue now. The walls are adobe cream and there are always new ways to organize old boxes and art and cairns. The air smells fresh and cold and crisp.

I rearrange the books on the shelves after I finish the new ones. iI is like adding a layer of greens to the composter outside. I remind myself to remember turn it three times daily.

I remind myself to stretch. I also remind myself that reminders are new to me.

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