Here’s a short piece written for : For Markéta B. Woodman
And perhaps that’s why I imagine you as someone who listens more than most. To the pause between words. To the creak of floorboards in an old house. To what people almost say before they say something else. marketa b woodman
Wherever you are — writing, walking, waiting for tea to steep — this piece is for you. A small acknowledgment that someone saw your name and recognized a world inside it. Here’s a short piece written for : For Markéta B
In that name is a quiet map: from the spires of Prague or the vineyards of Moravia to the woodlands of an English surname. A life lived in translation, not as loss, but as addition . You don’t cross borders so much as you carry them inside you — two ways of seeing, two languages humming under one roof. To the creak of floorboards in an old house
Markéta B. Woodman — not a name you shout across a room, but one you lean in to hear. And once heard, not forgotten. Like the scent of rain on dry ground. Like the first note of a cello in an empty hall.
