I missed the first snowfall last year. I way laying on a Sarong in Thailand, listening to a symphony of waves crash onto a white sand beach. The hot sun caking sea salt on my back as I took sand in my fists, squeezing the tiny granules into a stream that flowed from my closed hands, an hour glass without time.
Tonight, a year later, frozen rain fell from the sky. Wind shook the trees and rattled the ancient windows in their frames. Air hummed heavy sighs through the gangways of buildings, creaking and mumbling woeful despair. The radiators covered in layers of cracked paint begin to smell of old newspaper. Their new purpose; cozy warmth, the comfort of hot tea.The clanking and banging from the depths of the behemoth octopus water heater in the basement of this creaky structure echo in the night, giving life.
Tonight, there is no body to curl next to. Not a neck to smell or kiss. No ears to whisper secrets in. No breast or small of back to put my hands. Just pillows and memories here, and the sensation of the tears that leave salt streaks on my face. I do not sob. I lie still while the tiny droplets leak from my weary eyes. The sheets and blue fleece covering me do not billow with melancholy breath, nor sighs of grief or yearning. These covers and too soft bed are a mere envelop of setting, surrounding this crying character.
I stare into darkness, the cool air from the cracked window forcing my wool covered feet to cup in an embrace. Birth and mortality flutter like butterflies through fields of daisies in the abyss before my eyes. These Butterflies maintain stoic purpose and certainty to become. This dance of colorful ribbons has become my life; the purpose unknown and the certainty to become. Closing my eyes, the butterflies remain within, through and among my being.
I rest. The butterflies transform into statuesque bookends, supporting endless volumes of bound words of ink on parchment. More room for more...
Swallowing heavy, I roll to my side, bending knees to chest. Woozy in the shroud of reflection. I replay and manipulate my processes of action, molding outcomes into anything else. These moments I coddle and nourish as bright foreign stars, jewels. Then, I cautiously place them between the bookends, creating the library of my life.
The wind sounds like the ocean now, pulsing in sychronicity with the moon. A rolling gust rushes in meeting the undertoe of the last. Now the snow has ceased along with the tears. Meanwhile, I remain.
Repose.
When the dreams came, you were there. We stood on a beach covered in seaglass and shells. You said you wanted passion. I pointed to the horizon and said to look at the line between the sky and ocean, this was passion, and it was in you. You smiled looking down at the sand, brushing your hair behind your ear.
"How much do you love me?" You asked.
I picked up a grain of sand and held it in my hand, "See this grain?" I asked smiling. "This is love. See this beach? That's how much I love you."
The scene changed and it began to snow. Meaty flakes of lofty delight, the kind you catch on your tongue and create with a folded piece of paper and scissors. Unique, symmetric, gorgeous. You caught a flake in your upturned palm. You said,
"This snowflake is my love for you."
I watched as it melted into a tear.
hap e berth dad Dad. I miss you.