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A night or two ago, a dream that a Japanese Art-filmmaker wanted to film one at my parents house in the early of winter. The scene: the road, slick, wet, damp like the back of a beast arching through snow only a few inches deep so that the tracks of our feet left sodden ground weeping through. A red ball, bright and stark against a white and walnut landscape, tall as a child, just as insistent.

Cut.
Scene: The same landscape but this time with broad red-orange ribbon cutting through the landmarks like someone let Christo out of his cage. It wrapped around things defining our boundaries.

Cut.
Scene: me as a child wearing winter clothes that were always hand-me-downs and far too thin for a child raised in the tropics. I have never gotten used to snow. The parka is dull grey like the snow, my own hair as mud. A distance away, the ball. I do not appear to have noticed it at all, my eyes on the feet kicking snow up like sand too petulant to keep together. I do it in the way of habit.

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