Margret Egilsson

The wind here smells of salt and cold earth, pressing against the windows with a force that makes the glass tremble. I sit by the window, watching the grey sky settle over the sea, as I have done for many years. It is a quiet ritual, one that reminds me I am still here.

I was born in a small house in Kópavogur, Iceland, before it became the town it is today. Back then, the streets were fewer, the nights darker, the winters harder. My father was a carpenter, my mother a woman with a voice so soft it felt like silk slipping between your fingers. I was their youngest, the only one still alive. I do not say this with sorrow—just with the knowledge that life moves forward even when we do not wish it to.

There is a walking path near my apartment, leading toward the sea. When I was younger, I walked it every evening, even when the wind cut through my coat and stung my cheeks. Now, I walk slowly, pausing often. My breath is not what it used to be, and my bones complain like old doors in the wind. But I still take the path. I still greet the gulls, the fishermen who nod in quiet acknowledgment, the boy who sells coffee near the harbor.

Some nights, I dream of my husband. He has been gone for twenty years, but in dreams, time is meaningless. He is young again, laughing, teasing me about the way I press my lips together when I am deep in thought. I wake with the warmth of him still lingering in the folds of my blanket, but when I reach out, there is only air.

I am not afraid of death. But I am not ready to greet it either. As long as I can still wake to the scent of salt on the wind, as long as my feet can still find the path, I will keep walking.