There is a terrible, wonderful storm outside. It began with a creaking snow that held aching in its flakes. At first, sideways frozen dust. Then, a metamorphosis into noisy grit, pinging off my windows, clinging to my roof. (I woke to the cacophony, no longer shocked, simply knowing what I'd find.) I was not disappointed. Then, it just stopped.
The sudden quiet penetrates as surely as the cold.
All is still. Flash-frozen. Even the wind is silent.
The only lights come from the street. Golden amber. Muted. The perfect staging of shadowed outlines against the rolling white. A snow bomb has gone off. I am the lone survivor in its aftermath.
The plows and shovels have not yet arrived.
Huddled inside, neighbors push farther into sleep. Soon, house- lights will blink on. Coffee and bacon and oatmeal downed to fortify the storm-chores left in its wake. But not yet. Not yet.
The furnace clanks, shooting steam through veins of the house. A smell of wet heat, metal pipes, winter clothing permeates the darkness. My parents, the dog, all asleep. No huffing; no moans; no murmurs anywhere. Not even a ghost stirs in the silent spaces.
(My heart pumps with the ticking of my clock.
Almost as if I'm underwater, breathing forced oxygen, noting a kind of blue-light...)
This interior landscape of the house mirrors the interior landscape of my mind. Quiet between true night and first dawn--soon to erupt as someone inevitably cranks the house to movement. Whomever follows will rub against the first, the friction just enough to ignite a spark. Sudden warmth, or another explosion? Only the day will tell.
(This house has always held too much static electricity. Too many frustrated dreams.)
I watch my aging hands type in the glow of the screen. (Another field of white!) My words are footprints in electronic snow. The storm has pulled me in...pulled me back.
Always: this lesson.
Back.
(Whether for reparations, respite, reconnection or repair: back.)
Coming on Christmas.
Outside, there is a terrible, wonderful storm.
Like Joni Mitchell, I, too, wish I had a river.
To glide...
The sudden quiet penetrates as surely as the cold.
All is still. Flash-frozen. Even the wind is silent.
The only lights come from the street. Golden amber. Muted. The perfect staging of shadowed outlines against the rolling white. A snow bomb has gone off. I am the lone survivor in its aftermath.
The plows and shovels have not yet arrived.
Huddled inside, neighbors push farther into sleep. Soon, house- lights will blink on. Coffee and bacon and oatmeal downed to fortify the storm-chores left in its wake. But not yet. Not yet.
The furnace clanks, shooting steam through veins of the house. A smell of wet heat, metal pipes, winter clothing permeates the darkness. My parents, the dog, all asleep. No huffing; no moans; no murmurs anywhere. Not even a ghost stirs in the silent spaces.
(My heart pumps with the ticking of my clock.
Almost as if I'm underwater, breathing forced oxygen, noting a kind of blue-light...)
This interior landscape of the house mirrors the interior landscape of my mind. Quiet between true night and first dawn--soon to erupt as someone inevitably cranks the house to movement. Whomever follows will rub against the first, the friction just enough to ignite a spark. Sudden warmth, or another explosion? Only the day will tell.
(This house has always held too much static electricity. Too many frustrated dreams.)
I watch my aging hands type in the glow of the screen. (Another field of white!) My words are footprints in electronic snow. The storm has pulled me in...pulled me back.
Always: this lesson.
Back.
(Whether for reparations, respite, reconnection or repair: back.)
Coming on Christmas.
Outside, there is a terrible, wonderful storm.
Like Joni Mitchell, I, too, wish I had a river.
To glide...
No comments:
Post a Comment