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  • In the middle of nowhere we passed an open door, or a window, with a curtain that was fluttering in the wind, a curtain of birch bark, curling gleefully in the crisp breeze. How I wish I could have stepped inside, accepted a cup of tea at the kitchen table and slipped my cold feet into a pair of worn slippers, enjoyed some informal small talk and perhaps shared a moment of awkward silence, wrapped up in a smile and poured into the mug like warm milk. How I longed to be urged to spend the night in a small chamber upstairs and fall asleep the moment my head hit the soft, fragrant pillows, (rosemary, thyme), dreaming of a happy childhood and a comforting grandmother-lap, waking up to birdsong and freshly baked bread with melted butter and thick slices of cheese. How I wished that door was leading somewhere, and that I wasn’t condemned to remain on the outside, in the cold, imagining that even the middle of nowhere is somewhere significant to someone.
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