My second wave of visitors arrives early in the morning from Vermont. A long night of flying has left them appropriately bleary-eyed and incoherent. I feed them soy lattes at the coffee shop down the street.
I have school the next two days and so I send them into the city with a map and a guidebook. They do the usual attractions: Edinburgh Castle, Calton Hill, the Royal Mile, Holyrood Palace.
On the weekend we take a train up north and visit St. Andrews, a small and charming (and freezing) town on the North Sea. The next day we head east to Glasgow. The train deposits us on the cusp of George Square. We walk the half hour to Kelvingrove Museum. In the main hall, a childrens choir sings Christmas carols. There’s an organ that takes up an entire wall.
On their last day here, I send them to do Arthur’s Seat. I did it back when S was here and would have done it again if I wasn’t fighting the early signs of a cold or—I hope not—the flu. I make coffee in my apartment and drink it by the window. It’s a beautiful day, blue skies and not too cold. I’m supposed to do work but instead just drift in and out of a restless couch-sleep, interrupted by strange waking dreams and phantom door buzzers.
Almost three months gone, now. Fifteen days til Christmas, fifteen days til I see S again. It’s not yet as cold as I thought it would be. The sun shone all day yesterday. My best friend borrows my coat. I am continually astonished by the progression of days. One after the other. It’s sometimes the only thing you can count on.
photographs taken at the Kelvingrove Museum in Glasow with a Canon t1i.
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