My mum has this memory of a train journey: of seeing a line of little grass hills beside the tracks somewhere between St. Petersburg and Moscow.
The dawn sun was lighting up these little soviet-era things. Making presents of them for her young eyes.
I cherish this memory, even though it’s not mine. I love the fact that she was looking at the left-over grass heaps and not the newly-tidy fields. And I love the fact that she told me about them years later. They just have this spontaneous significance. And they connect me to her somehow.
So this random line of sun got me thinking about that. It got me thinking about reaching out to time. Like a family does.