draumkvadet

Last night I saw people I hadn't seen in years, in an apartment last seen in Norwegian summer sunlight shining in from the balcony, but it seemed larger this time.

I did what I so often do when approached by people at parties, which is not recall that I have met them before, even when they are handsome, pleasantly tall, open-faced fellows like this one. After initial embarrassment I found did remember him from many summers ago, but it took him introducing himself again by name (Mie, two syllables) and me repeating it after him, feeling the tonality of the language fall into familiar grooves in my throat.

I charged him with helping me stay in those grooves instead of sliding into deeper-worn furrows to the west. Inevitably, my tongue would jump the track, keyra útaf, and then each time I said mjög or lítið he jerked his eyebrows up and queried hva da? until I corrected them to veldig and lite.