The house in summer
This summer, the summer of the pandemic, I cannot get to Fogo Island or the house in Sandy Cove but I find myself dreaming of this place, this ocean, these winds. Fogo Island taught me how complicated the wind can be, how active the air is, even if invisible to us. We can’t see it but can learn to listen to its voice, its multiple touches. I miss walking down this lane, wind singing in the long grass, breakers a froth on the rocks, staring out across the slate sea towards Iceland.
