The snow recedes, takes dirt and fear and winter with it. The streets glitter with melt, I strain my neck across all of Central Park to find a snowdrop; they evade me. The fear remains, a little too much for my liking, how do I outrun what's been etched in my bones? I haven't learned the right ways to react to the ordinary.
They say grief sits in you like an illness, and you know you carry the ache generations in the making. Back home, your father collapses under his on weight and you start to think he will never be well and perhaps he will drag the rest of you with him. You've spent a lifetime trying to keep people from anchoring to your drag. To what end? In the street, my car holds an unearned dent, a silent scratch. The Universe speaks and I wonder when I'll be ready
to listen.
