A Light at the Camp

To you, who spotted a small light,

Welcome to the Storm Post Office. March 1991, Antarctica, and the sun is already leaving early. This paper is deep ocean blue, with a cream italic title that looks cut into snow. Between fine lines of snow ridges stands one small research hut, printed so that its window seems truly lit; beside it are sage-green instrument scales, an ochre cargo strip held by a row of stitches, and a frost pattern pressed blind into the page.

A poet once described hope as a small bird that perches in the soul, and said of it: “I’ve heard it in the chillest land, / And on the strangest sea; / Yet, never, in extremity, / It asked a crumb of me.” — Emily Dickinson, Poems, Second Series (1891)

The light is small, but a great many have kept warm by it. Come in and sit; you don't need to bring anything or say a word. When you feel like writing, pen and paper are on the table.

A lamp left on for you

Storm Post Office

March 1991 · Antarctica

P.S. The boots hanging by the door are dry. Please borrow them.