Dressing

I put on my mother’s undershirt, my mother’s socks, her splash pants, the gloves I found at the very back of her closet underneath the misshapen afghan she knitted 40 years ago, my father’s fleece sweater—the one I bought for him some time before he died—and my father’s Tilley hat (given to me by my brother after my mother’s funeral.) Thus clothed, I find I am ready for any kind of spring weather. The cold rain cannot penetrate to my raw skin.

Ice Arrows

I look for an explanation across the expanse of water. Arrows of ice point me in all directions. They are too thin to hold my weight. The dog and I keep walking on solid ground.

Ice Tide

The ice travels in and out on the tide like so much flotsom: the great white shards, the frozen rubble, the floating sand-iced cakes, the pale blue shadows, the cold hanging in the air like winter breath. Yesterday when I came I saw nothing but an open expanse of steel-blue water with a thin white line on the distant horizon.

Hands

These hands: warm and almost unbearably soft, still reaching to try to grasp and hold delicate memories as they slip under flannel blankets, hide in the fold of hospital gown, evaporate into flowers. Now those memories are floating like whispers in the trees, uncontained by skin and bone, oh, free, like love.

Spring in Winter

In a matter of hours, we have once again gone from squeak (of snow) to squelch (of mud). Winter ebbs and flows like a tide, though much less predictable. Winter swings like a pendulum, though more erratically. Winter breathes a bitter wind and a balmy breeze. Winter freezes and melts, freezes… and melts: The woodshed door is iced shut and the mosquitoes hatch in the warm cellar; The road is a polished rink and a deeply rutted muddy line; The clouds sing snow and cry rain. Beside the fire we shake our heads in worry and in the sunroom we bask with the cat.

Everything is Different

I still take pictures. I search through image after image, thinking about what the photographs of this new life might mean, struggling to find a fitting place to re-start. Of course there are threads in the discontinuity that stitch the past to the present; many more things are the same than different. But I have lost my footing. My shoes are new, and haven’t yet been broken in.

January Green

The Year of No Summer slides into The Year of No Winter. Such off-kilter seasons are forgiving: today I raked the sodden oak leaves from my yard, the ones I didn’t get to in November. Despite these second chances, this seasonal deception is hard on all of us. I am sure I have seen catkins waving in alarm beside the road, their tiny blossoms defenceless, their precious pollen doomed.

November Rose

It bloomed in October, and lasted until today’s torrential rain. It stood on the lawn like a kind of sentinel, watching as we walked, distractedly, to our front door; like a kind of memory, pale and fragile in the autumn sun; like a kind of promise, holding out among the falling brown and curling leaves.

Vigil

As if we could call her back with candles. As if the flickering light could guide her home. As if she could be found, safe, asleep in her own bed, dreaming of eight-balls, balance sheets, and thanksgiving dinner. As if none of this has happened. As if time was inspired to be kinder, once warmed by fragile flames.

First Snow

Every time we look out the window, something different: rain, wind, sleet, rain, hail, rain, hail, houses with wet basements, and there it is, snow. A different kind of out-of-season gift. October reminds us that change is to be expected; that mornings, as well as evenings, are highly unpredictable; that there is great beauty even in the stinging cold.