Like at night, talking at the table, and glancing outside to see the snow falling. Like forgetting and awakening; again the clear magic. Like the blackthorn’s spindle branches and grass turned bronze and the endless white sky. And the snow that came like confetti first, and clung to the birches and the oaks, and settled like a warm robe across the woods. Like the gleeful shouts that crack the morning still, the scrape of shovels and crunch of boots. Like the water’s edge with its icy hem and the stealthy strut of a curlew. Like coffee. Like my lover’s eyes.
She had panda eyes. Huge and dark. They would twinkle when he watched her and they were mournful too. People said she was cute but he thought she was stronger, tougher than that. It was just those moments when suddenly she would lower her head and she looked like the most lost and lovely and sad thing in the world. He could stare at her face for ever. When you found someone you found someone. That was all. It was a rare thing. What would happen if there were no more pandas? Would anyone know how to describe her eyes?