“I put the shawl in the box, tucking down the folds to fit and the letter over top. The bright red of the wool, its incredible softness, the mystery of how it came to me - all will serve her well in her hospital bed. It may have been hers, originally. Some history is lost. Some reappears, without identification tags. Dear mother, I’m probably sending you your shawl, I think to myself. I’m packing up my house, every shred of physical matter I own or ever owned, it’s being scrutinized. Sort of lonely now with nothing left to box. Most of it shipped out to a storage unit, for mice and the frigid cold to play upon. Sometimes, you’re left to clean up the mess. The mess of a lifetime, the mess of a family, the mess of a breakup. Getting the chance to clean up, is, perhaps, a blessing. Otherwise, death overtakes stuff, and stuff becomes detritus. In my case, I comb over what used to matter. I unearth my own gems, left like scrawled notes to the future, placed in a cornerstone. I text my daughter in Italy her first note, mentioning her now husband. At the time, accused of stalking for printing out her emails, I’d like to think now it’s okay. Water over the damn, as daughter becomes mother, and mother becomes grandmother. Taking a break, midday, I’m clumsily walking in rubber boots, relying on ski poles, breaking a trail to the cabin & falling thru every other step. The door is frozen shut. I turn and look out over the landscape, hear the ftt-ftt of the neighbor’s wind turbine, remembering every wedding in the field that promised so much love. It’s okay. I keep telling everyone that this world is harsh for us, and not supposed to be fun. If it is fun, that’s a bonus. You probably earned it in another life. Kudos to you, and to be clear I’ve had some of that, but more so, karmic interference. If you play your disadvantages right, you’ve done something monumental, so anyway, don’t despair. I won’t, if you don’t. It’s time to steady the team and level the playing field. And if we can’t sort thru the massive disinformation of the present tense, we can certainly rely on the innocent, guileless archives of the past. What we wanted to be. Who we thought we were married to. How we dreamed it would go. There was no harm in being optimistic. Humans lean that way. On my icicle tour, checking catkins in the yard, punching snow crust with the conviction of a seasoned northern goddess, I wend a path in keeping with my assignment. How much beauty is left? All of it. Who is still showing up to surprise my heart? Many. Does anyone see what I see? Yes. Can we do something about it? Absolutely.”
