by Kristi Ross
Another day in this northern city. Even at noon the light is too diffuse to cast a shadow. For months this grey-brown winter has soaked into her skin, layering loneliness and sadness, conjuring up memories of loss.
When she thinks of him, the planes of his face and the set of his shoulders have largely dissolved. It’s his sunshine yellow living room that she remembers best, the air vibrating with strings and percussion and sometimes a saxophone. His whole house was drenched in colour, filled with music, so different from the drab streets outside. Even the orange cat purring on the windowsill added to the warmth.
She went back once, four years after he died, when the house had become a museum. His music played on the sound system and the colours of the rooms had been faithfully retained, but somehow the life had gone out of it all. She left after a quarter of an hour and never returned, though she couldn’t pull herself away from the cold granite city he loved.
She remembers his yellow boots, supple leather with laces of indigo, and how he would leave them at her door and walk around her flat on rainbow-socked feet as if he owned the place. Longing washes through her.
She unhooks her coat from the stand in the hall, the stand he bought for her in a down-at- heel antique shop. Pulling on a beret, she glances in the mirror and frowns at the wrinkles carved into her cheeks. At least he hadn’t lived to see them. Would he have cared? She isn’t sure.
The door clicks behind her and the stairway echoes with her footsteps. Outside, the wind whips around her, scattering discarded sweet papers and cigarette butts. She only means to go as far as the corner, buy milk and a bag of coffee, then hurry home, but the sound of a violin floats out from the nearby square. When she turns the corner, the wind tears at her coat and stings her cheeks, but she doesn’t care.
Leaning against a massive plane tree, a young man is playing one of his early compositions, a lively dance written for a television series years before they met. People hurry past, some tossing coins that chink against those already at the busker’s feet, others ignoring him. Slipping into a doorway sheltered from the wind, she lets the music flood her mind and soak into her body. Her eyes close. As the sound reaches a crescendo, she feels the weight of an arm settle around her shoulders and the warmth of springtime seep into her bones.
When she finally opens her eyes, the violinist has gone. A few doors further on, the florist is packing up, ready to close. She doesn’t buy flowers in winter – they’re a luxury she can rarely afford – but today she hurries towards the shop. Soon, she’s heading home humming to herself, an armload of sunshine yellow daffodils nestling against her coat.
Kristi Ross has written about the arts, culture, the environment and travel for magazines, newspapers and books. She has had stories published online and in anthologies. Originally from Scotland, she lives with two rescue cats in a patch of Indonesian jungle full of birds, butterflies and garrulous geckos.
January House Literary Journal 
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