I'm thinking of an evening in Oban, an evening when the world was at peace. An evening of subtle shades of blue and orange and grey, of winds sweeping in from the Atlantic, of ships leaving the harbor, riding the waves toward Mull. I'm remembering the taste of mead on my lips, of a woollen shawl around my shoulders, of hearing seagulls and bagpipes and the distant horn of the ferry hang in the evening air. I'm again seeing the outlines across the bay of Mull and Kerrera and Lismore, islands sleeping in the slate-colored water like dozing whales. So far away from strife, from words of hate and war, from uncertain futures and corporate greed and the stress of city life and opportunities missed. I'm thinking of an evening in Oban, and I swear, it feels like if I think hard enough, I can almost be there.

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