Evening letters at the harbor window

After a day translating Chimamanda, vinyl Sade softens the room; I pour bergamot tea and let the lighthouse lamp sweep the harbor into a slow, polite rhythm. The window seat keeps my knees warm and the wind practices its Norwegian-salt lullaby against the panes.

I write a few sentences in Igbo for the man whose stories come wrapped in old maps and late dinners, then a line in Swedish for the woman whose laugh rearranges the furniture of a room. The pen folds into marine metaphors—tide, trade wind, a small promise that will travel by post and arrive smelling faintly of candlewax.