Some years ago now (Four? Five? It seems impossible that time in still linear after these disrupted years), I spent a quiet Memorial Day in Lithuania. Late May is a spectacular time of year in the northern Baltic states — not the early heat of the impending American summer, but impossibly long bright days as the arc of the sun sweeps toward solstice, gentle temperatures of a prolonged and decadent spring, many excess hours that deceive our sense of the passage of time, seemingly designed for sitting with friends and trading stories. During the long twilight hours under dusky skies that refuse to fade, memories seem more real as they are shared, catching the strange light as they brush past, tactile, electric, a petrichor of remembrance to cement the responsibility of the stories we now carry together.
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