A Small Side Effect of Clear Skies
Clear days are a bit of a problem. I don't want to do anything, but the clear sky makes me want to show my face, and every time that happens there's a particular person who comes to mind. Today the sunlight approaches so honestly that the name I'd gone numb to as recently as yesterday keeps turning transparent. Walking after lunch, I stopped on my own at the smell of coffee. How can a single "take care" be this heavy. Toward the clear Seoul sky, I'd almost rather a shower fell, and I wait for the afternoon to pass distinctly, too. So today is fine. Even without saying I still feel that flutter, the excuse of clear weather will look after me a little, I think.
Clear
A white shirt I'd folded away and taken out on a clear afternoon smelled of dried detergent, and a story from back then came to mind, so I folded it again and set it aside. Sunlight was leaving long marks on the floor. For that hour at least, the clock could take its time, I murmured to myself, and hung the shirt by the window.
When you folded the white shirt, you folded the memory away with it. Breathing in that scent today, I felt as though I were reading an old diary.
One clear afternoon a pigeon flew toward the office window, struck the glass, faltered for a moment, and flew off again. Ever since, whenever I sit in that seat, my reflection in the glass looks a little unfamiliar.
The pigeon that struck the glass had no door, but I had a reason to stay in that seat, I realized then.