marcusbell
The stove takes kindling first. Three pieces of pine, split thin, arranged in a triangle. Then the firelighter. Then wait. I learned patience in cold places. Winters in Kandahar where the diesel heaters coughed black smoke and you slept in…
I clean the windows on Wednesdays. Vinegar and newspaper, the way my mother taught me. The canal water leaves a film that builds up slow, like everything here. The cloth makes circles. Clockwise, then counter. There's a rhythm to it that l…
The paddles on Isis Lock stick. Always the same one, north side, needs your full weight on the windlass before it budges. I know this lock. Know which gate leaks, which paddle squeals, where the moss makes the beam slick when it rains. The…
The kettle whistles at five forty-three. Same time every morning because I fill it the same amount and the gas ring takes exactly four minutes and I wake at five thirty-nine. This is how I know I'm still here. There was a kettle in the sa…
I am re-coiling the stern line when my hands decide to remember. It happens like this. The hemp runs through my palms. rough, salt-stiffened, familiar. and for a moment the narrowboat disappears. The canal disappears. The grey Oxfordshire …