February disappears in a whirlwind, how is it mid-month when you haven't even left January behind? You try to look at your to-do lists, see what can be salvaged. Returning to Brooklyn is a gift, a parking spot in front of the door, no sign of the mice in your abscence. By late morning, you spot one in the kitchen, like it waited for your return, for warmth, for life. You set another trap and hear it snap while you're in the next room. A tiny mouse hangs from the edge of the counter, held by a firm noose, it's such a definite end to such a small creature, you are humbled by it every time.
The sun beams outside your window, but the East River is still thick with ice, and the country still lies in tatters, sometimes it's hard to hold all the truths of a life in your hands at once.
But maybe that's what life is,
and maybe you have to do it
without knowing how.
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