keepers of the gloom

irregular pings on the roof of the air conditioner that we didn't store for winter, gray light sneering his way through the curtains into slushy puddles on the floor, the birdless quiet booming through the house: sunday mornings should always start that way. i thought it was raining, an early springy rain that would bring some green back to this squirrel-brown world of winter.

"it's raining outside henry -- move the curtains, have a look." he jumps up to move the curtain. jude says, "oh, wow!" henry bursts, "it's not raining, it's snowing, mama."



as human as it sounds, i must grumble a bit about it. snow should say goodbye with the last leap of the month of mud, cabbage, love. when march rolls around there should only be rain, sunshine, crocuses. there shouldn't be furry jackets, fuzzy socks, insulated glovage. especially when the snow of march is not sled-worthy and is mostly ice and slush-ball.

the days are dark and ordinary, stirring all of us crazy. i buy a small fern and blacken my fingers with soil from a bag. the dirt is cold because it's been sitting in the garage, but the process is cathartic and spins a kind of hope that magazines, reruns of the victory garden, and the anxious stirring of dead leaves in search of green just don't proliferate.