Vera

We shed the hastiness of booking hotels and going on road trips at every instance of a long weekend. I embraced the satisfaction to be found from staying put. There is nothing we are missing. It's here, right in our kitchen and living room and loft living room and bedrooms and dining room and billiards room and pantry and balcony and our wide, wide, wide garden, our space breathing and moving with us—a perpetual push and pull of mess and structure. I just need to settle into the nothingness of a weekend, and it can stretch itself into what feels like an entire week of pure family. Home in July, 2026

Mountain lake Djupvatnet (Deep Water), 1,016 meters above sea level, on an August day. The wind was blowing strong and cold from the nearby Blåfjell glacier. I’ve seen this place in all seasons, and it has seen our family grow from two to three, and then to four. When we have family visiting from the Philippines, we take them here—a snapshot of my new home, Norway. Travelers mostly pass by here en route to Mount Dalsnibba to view the village of Geiranger and the Geiranger Fjord. This year, we stopped at this particular spot  to eat an early dinner of sandwiches. My sister has been to Norway three times now, but this is her first time seeing Geiranger.  

 Because I do not have my own room, I find myself in too many different places in one night. And now I've grown tired of these places. People come in and out, carrying their bottles of beer or cups of coffee like trophies of independence and freedom to paint the night beautifully, unplanned. And then there are the smiles. Always those nods and smiles that make everyone feel they are not actually hanging from threads and threads of sadness, and - no matter how many stories and silent sympathies are shared - anonymity. photo by Russ, 'turtled' in drinks

My eight-hour, five-day office schedule is highlighted by Dave Matthews Band singing to wake me up and help me avoid hitting my drooping head on the computer screen. For the nth time, my headphones got busted. The left (or right) earpiece always manages to 'malfunction' itself, and I'm left with my lonely right (or left) ear blasted with songs it can never share with my left (or right) ear. I told my boss I will quit by May. And "Yes, I am decided already," and "No, there's no possibility of extending my stay. I've given this much thought already." "I admit I will be taking a risk, but better to do that than to forever wonder what I could have done more outside these office walls." "No, I can't see myself being Ms. Corporate-Communication-head in the future." "Yes, I feel more fulfilled outside." There's a song replaying a thousand times in my head, "I'm a lonely little petunia in an onion patc...

asked the woman who cut my hair. No. Of course not. Try to shut up, please, and comb my hair softly. I know it's thick, black — and you wonder why, and you ask me, like the others before, "Did you have your hair dyed?" And I say no again for the thousandth time — probably stubborn, and difficult to deal with. But I'm trying to be happy while getting lost inside SM on this extremely lonely Sunday. So please, be patient with my hair. Smile, too. Make me believe I am worth your time.

But gloomy skies have something to give in this part of the city, too. Like, for example, a reason to walk with head lowered, a pedestrian careful not to walk on deep puddles. Or, a reason to sleep early. Or, a reason to wear brown. And black. Better yet, a reason to hug oneself in layers and layers of clothing, a walking body heavy with the weight of damp, long-sleeved tops. It's my month of 2006's leftovers. People came and went. Mostly went. Men who need some time off to climb the mountains and spend time in seclusion before coming back down stripped of whatever baggage they were carrying. Sisters who will never give you their trust because "you will never grow up, can't even fix your closet and can't even arrange your books and papers." Fathers who will always have to leave, that seeing-off at the airport that perpetually signals the end of the holidays. I'd like to think that this isn't sadness. It's only that dimly lit Christmas tree, blinkin...