Solstice

By Henrik Nordbrandt Translated by Thom Satterlee In midwinter the sun fell so low you could see under every gate in the world. The sawmill above the valley came to a halt and tore the crumbled wallpaper of childhood. I walked into the pine forest like someone I once knew casually and could forget just as easily. A drop fell, lighting up the darkness and burning a hole in the carpet of spruce needles. It sounded like steps in a sacristy just before a baptism.