Fantasy Snow Day (Fall 2008)

(Prose b/c its snowing and you aren't going anywhere anyway. This is hard to put into context, but lets just say its kind of an imagined memory from the first time my mom was sick. The whole thing is kinda trippy and it makes more sense if you know all the symbols, but I thought it was appropo seeing as how its snowing and I love my mom and I've decided to live today in a fantasy. Oh, and read the ee cummings poem I stole here, its perfect...)

The porch was not very large- I sat on the far rocker, one of two white chairs with a small table between them. When I leaned back I could put my feet up on the shallow wooden edge below the screen that kept out bugs. The string of colored lights was hung around the top edge of the screen, gleaming soft enough to avoid obscuring the stars. With my feet up I could observe the whole back yard, and a small expanse of sky deepening from dusk to dark. There were sheets and towels hanging on the clothesline, moving together as proof of the wind. I could smell them, fresh and stainless, and I had an acute urge to go wrap myself in them. To join in their sway.

I heard footsteps in the kitchen, and when I turned my head my mother was standing in the doorway. I smiled at her, and held out my hand. She stepped onto the porch and took a seat in the opposite rocker before squeezing my hand.

“What are you doing here?” I asked.

“Taking a break.” she said. She sounded tired. Her hands, usually soft and clean, looked worn beyond their years. The skin was yellowed and cold, and her nails were short and cracked. I missed her beautiful hands. I was shocked at the color around her eyes. It was a color that belonged to the snow-sky. It did not belong here in our back haven in the soft light. It didn’t belong with the hummingbirds and the laundry and the dusk.

“We should go back. I’ll take you.”

“Do we have to go?” Her eyes were closed, and she was resting her head back against the pillow.

“Yea. We do.” I reached into my pocket and pinched out some of the dark sand. She opened her eyes and I extended this small gift to her. The grains caught the light from the string, but the glint wasn’t as harsh as it’d been on the beach. She cupped her hand to receive it.

“I carry your heart with me.” I said.

“I carry it in my heart.” she said. “I am never without it.”

I nodded. “I am never without it.”

We did not retrace my steps to get back. We walked to the front of the house, and turned right. We walked under gingko trees. We didn’t make turns. It started to snow again, so she took my hand, and together we moved slowly through the whirling flakes. I stuck my tongue out to catch a few flakes there, and she did the same. We laughed then, and started to twirl in the storm. I lost touch with her hand, spinning and spinning in the falling white. I could hear her laughing, and I closed my eyes. I suddenly heard my own exclamation, but I wasn’t laughing. I was crying. Crying for her. Crying for her, for the third time.