in the morning the snow is velvety white and ribbed we skiers call it corduroy I like to weave in and out of it always looking to lay first tracks
we marvel at our luck what a huge mountain to be traversing our kid in tow, slow behind us but eager to descend through the trees
at lunch we sun ourselves on the deck and you remark how this is a nice alternative to the blustery winter skiing we are used to I wear sunglasses to shade my eyes and smile
by afternoon the snow has softened given in to the weight of skiers and boarders we skiers called it mash potatoes your quintessential spring skiing
soft mounds of snow piled haphazardly on the slope we navigate carefully around, over, through hitting a mud patch will lurch you forward foregoing any grace and style there may have been
But this is the price we pay (and what a price it was) to steal away for a few days in a tiny A-frame, er, cabin in the woods to chase the remaining snow that winter supplied this year
I couldn’t feel the wind in the forest under the canopy of budding trees parked at the campsite with the picnic table
I did feel the cold sting of winter’s lingering breathe fighting against the thawing earth throwing snow sideways against the trees
On the mountain top there’s blue skies and sun the promise of spring already visible
Winter cannot survive much longer and together we will smile and laugh in the sunshine squint up at the heat swat away flies seek shade among the thick forest canopy.
When I am among the trees, especially the willows and the honey locust, equally the beech, the oaks and the pines, they give off such hints of gladness. I would almost say that they save me, and daily.
I am so distant from the hope of myself, in which I have goodness, and discernment, and never hurry through the world but walk slowly, and bow often.
Around me the trees stir in their leaves and call out, “Stay awhile.” The light flows from their branches.
And they call again, “It’s simple,” they say, “and you too have come into the world to do this, to go easy, to be filled with light, and to shine.”
I drive here knowing there will be sounds I need to hear today. A dozen different frog sounds from the vernal ponds, collecting around thick wheat grass. The bigger pond is mostly silent, except for the ripples casting silent whispers.
There are birds, too, ones I can’t identify. Starlings, yes. And red-winged black birds. A pair of ducks. That’s all I know. The others fly anonymously from tree to tree.
It’s a wonder I don’t fuck this up too. Just sitting here by the pond. Maybe because there’s no one else here. If I don’t talk I can’t keep making mistakes. The words come from my mouth before they enter my brain.
Six years ago half of my mother’s brain stopped working and she collapsed on the laundry room floor and laid there for four hours alone until my dad came home from a long day of being a CPA during tax season and found her in a pile of fluid and blood.
She survived, somehow. But she lost her speech and the movement of her right side and nothing has been the same since. If I could trade places with her I wouldn’t keep fucking up. I would be speechless and motionless. You can’t do damage that way. My mother never says the wrong things now. She used to, like me. Or me like her. Not now. Now she’s just always there – half a working brain, with all her emotional capacity and memory still in tact.
I need to emulate my post-stroke mom. Keep quiet. Listen. Don’t say the things. The things are stupid. They get you in trouble. Be the person friends say “you never talk anymore” to. That’s what I aspire to be.
For seven years now my heart has slowly numbed. I hate the platitudes about heartbreak and that it means you loved deeply. I hate platitudes. But heartbreak lasts a lifetime. Reoccurring heartbreak leaves scars that aren’t particularly lovely. I feel empty of love. I feel alone.
While flicking ticks off my pants I hear a loud crack in the woods, not far away. Far enough that I don’t run. I hear it again and watch a tree let loose and fall to the ground. It is magic and terror. I can’t tell if the tree was dead before it fell. Regardless, the wind has its own plans for the trees today. I decide against wandering farther along the path, farther into the woods and retreat back to the pond.
There are unspoken paths around the water that present themselves during dry spells. I make my way to humped land above the far end of the pond where the starlings and black birds have nested. They group together and fly away, to the tree tops across the pond. I am a birders worst companion. There is no grace or elegance in my presence. But I was attracted to the view and the downed trees and the vibrant green moss. That green moss gets me every time. I have a thousand pictures of: moss in forest. moss on rocks. moss on trees. moss on moss.
the smell of damp ash and smoke the image of ruins and rebirth the same sounds of highway and birds and electrical humming but not footsteps in front or behind
