seeds (the magician's assistant)

Spring sneaks in, with old men selling crocus bouquets on street corners. The air no longer carries that dead, brittle smell. The door to the balcony is not opened and closed in a messy hurry, lest all of the cosy air run out. No, it can lean open now - full of promises. As dark as the world can feel, when those first signs of Spring come they make us accept that something sweet can still happen, if only a handful of flowers.

We have been living out of boxes and suitcases in the new apartment for at least nine months. A sofa was bought at one point, a table and chairs after that - but the walls are lined with possessions, tattered labels written on cardboard stare back from morning until night. V asks me to save the pit from an avocado, pokes it with toothpicks and rests it over a glass of water. We grew an avocado in Moscow like this a few feet tall. It is a time for planting, for believing in the promise of the seed, the care of water, the promise of sun.

An espresso maker is on sale, and we venture off into a messy corner of the city to buy it. A machine as simple as this was missing from our daily routine. We wrestle a space for it on the counter, and chug out the very first cups. The machine punches above its weight, and smiles back at us, waiting to make more. Why is it that the little things, these minor victories - how do they suddenly make everything feel ok? How can a solid cup of coffee erase the madness? Maybe there is no answer, just the understanding that it knows how to do this magic trick. We are just the magician’s assistant, we buy the rabbits and he pulls them out of the hats.