Jason Bennett

Through the attic window I try to gauge the density of pine trees along the far edge of the lake. I want to catch the mischief of light and dark with just charcoal and chalk. Simple colours, true colours — no tricks, no lies, no blurring. It is a weary morning at Sakkaman’s Spit. The cloud-cover sags under its own weight, and around the lake’s edge paper-thin patches of ice have appeared. I will build the density of trees in layers, charcoal over charcoal, and, when the clouds have melted away, I will highlight where the sun slices between the branches, scores lines against the bark, and strikes at the water. If I concentrate hard enough on this, I can leave all worries behind. I can unhook those dead weights and float out of myself.

I open the attic window and let the cold air pass through me. Erik is outside. He is supposed to be sweeping the veranda, but he is parading up and down in his boots and running the end of the broom handle along the balusters. In the attic, the hollow knocking bumps through the wall and dislodges dust from the rafters.