It can't be the last day here

I can't believe this is already our last day here and I don't feel like going. No. I've been loving every minute of our routine in the Tanat Valley, the small house with all its nooks and cranies, the coal fires, the teapot, the way I felt snug and safe as if everything sad, heavy and painful had come to a halt, suspended, ready to crumble into a heap of grit and ashes. Last year I didn't want to come back from Iceland because of the timelessness there, the light, the white moon, the white sun. This year I don't want to leave either, let go of the shades of greys and greens and all the subtle ways days merge into each other.