an animal caught in a swirl of white

I woke up this morning to find big downy flakes falling to the ground as silently as they were made, I am sure.
These are the days that it is hardest to get out of bed.
These are the days that I pray the snow will come down and gather around our house, piling higher and higher, until all is tucked in neatly and there is no coming or going.
However, the majesty of the snow fall only lasted as long as it took me to get to work and then the snow disappeared.

Even in its brevity this was the type of snowfall I wanted on Christmas, however, true to the current trend in Michigan the last few years, we recieved none.

I am glad Christmas is over. I am glad that soon people will stop asking me how it was for my family without Dad. I wish I could bury my head in the sand to their questions; shout over the echoes of voice that might make its way into the particles of grit; and scream until my mouth is full of the dry, sandy matter.
I hate the mopey expressions that people make, trying to pry into my sadness with their very eyes. I feel as though people ask after death as they would watch an animal in the zoo. Waiting patiently for the seemingly sleeping beast to stir.

I look forward instead to New Year's, to being surrounded by friends and to being home. I am driving to Buffalo to meet up with B1 & B2, and then the three of us will then drive to the farm in Massachusetts for a few days of respite. It will be nice to be with my "family" of friends there for a few days, and hang out. We all haven't been together in a very long time, so it will be nice, though weird without TSOldtimer there too. I realized the other day that spending New Year's at the farm is a tradition for me--I who have no traditions--I have been there every year since the New Year's of 2003-2004.

I hope to find the farm covered in a layer of the white stuff and in anticipation I share this poem:

“Snow”
by Anne Sexton
from: The Awful Rowing Towards God

Snow,
blessed snow,
comes out of the sky
like bleached flies.
The ground is no longer naked.
The ground has on its clothes.
The trees poke out of sheets
and each branch wears the sock of God.

There is hope.
There is hope everywhere.
I bite it.
Someone once said:
Don’t bite till you know
if it’s bread or stone.
What I bite is all bread,
rising, yeasty as a cloud.

There is hope.
There is hope everywhere.
Today God gives milk
and I have the pail.

Comments

we have no seasons on florida; every day is like the next. I envy your Christmas memories, the snow, the chapped lips, the frozen ears and toes. thanks for leaving a message; I sometimes feel I'm only posting for my mom...
Effing, you are def. posting for many readers--I keep seeing your name on others' sites--there are masses!!
Florida, hmm, I hate FL., no offense. I spent one Christmas there when my Grandma died--ugh, and then another time I was visiting some family and I hit an armadillo and thought the car was going to tip over--bad memories.

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