A chronicle,
city by city.
Scroll, and the years will pass. Each frame is its own small room. Take your time.
A sky of small flags
Gothic Quarter
It rained in the morning and again that night. The shirts were dry by four.
A grey that was almost white
Reynisfjara
The world stopped about thirty meters out. I never heard the wave until it was under my boots.
She made me tea twice
A kitchen in Hafnarfjörður
I had come about the lighthouse. We spoke about her husband, who had built the chair I was sitting in.
Rush hour, muffled
Christianshavn
The fog kept the sound down. Everyone cycled as if they were remembering it, not doing it.
After the rain, before service
Île Saint-Louis
The chairs were still wet. The light was not. I took one frame and went back in.
Dust, in a language
Rue de l’Odéon
A Colette, a Sebald, a ninth-edition Proust held together with a rubber band.
Rain on vermilion
Fushimi Inari
I waited for the path to empty. The rain helped. The lanterns did the rest.
The whisk, then the bowl
Gion
Pan Tadeusz, page four
Kazimierz
He read for an hour without turning the page. I would like to be that inside of something.
Supper, almost
Home kitchen
Make a wish
Grandma's kitchen
She was turning four. The cake leaned slightly to the left and no one minded.
The wish, already made
The kitchen table
The smoke was still curling off the candles. Her brother blinked at the wrong second. Her dad is half out of frame, reaching for a plate.
Tuesday cake
Grandma's counter
He climbed the step stool and reached straight for the frosting. She pretended not to see.
A smoke, unhurried
Ribeira
He lit a second before I asked. He did not look at me once, which is the only way these pictures are made.
Blue against the hour
Miragaia
Azulejo holds the late sun differently — amber on a surface that refuses to warm.
The 28, climbing
Alfama
A yellow tram, a white wall. I stopped thinking about what I came here for.
The long way up
Graça
Mist pooled at the bottom and thinned at the landing. She never once looked back.
The stoop, around ten
The stoop
One checking her phone. One tying a shoelace. One smoking. Beer cans on the step between them.
A song, after dinner
The front steps
He only knew three chords. It didn't matter. We all knew the words.
Three chords and a porch light
The porch light
He kept missing the G. She kept humming it anyway. The dog was somewhere off the frame, and the paint was peeling.
Head thrown back
The backyard
He handed her a beer halfway through the reception. She drank it standing up in the dress.
Before the vows
The back porch, again
She hid her face in his neck for a full minute. Nobody said anything. Somebody spilled a glass of wine.
Barefoot, in June
A back porch
They were married on the porch of the house she grew up in. Thirty people. Her father cried first.
Two thin bands
The kitchen table
No rehearsal. He fumbled the ring and she laughed and that was the best part of the whole day.
The long walk home
The long way home
They walked down the dirt road past the barn, still barefoot, without saying anything. I let them go.
Everyone, talking at once
The long table
A birthday for a friend of a friend. I ended up staying until the candles burned out.
Mid-sentence
Across the table
Someone knocked over the water. Nobody moved to wipe it up. They were still laughing when the bread came around again.
After everyone left
The kitchen, after
The chicken bones, the heel of the bread, two empty bottles. I took one last photo before starting the dishes.
A door, waiting
Užupis
The brass was worn smooth. I stood across the street for a while, waiting for someone to open it. No one did.
Afternoon, long
Literatų gatvė
She had been there when I passed in the morning, and she was still there when I came back.
Île Saint-Louis
Chairs, early. No one yet.
For now. There is always another corner.