Mid-Winter

In Albany, the snow was past our knees. On the train to Buffalo, we watched water push through, a whole landscape of sticks.

Away from the snow, it’s something to miss. Quiet.

It’s quieter in California, but it is an alone quiet and not that still quiet. Mac says it best, “Kristen is upstate through and through.” It stays true even as a mark new homes and temporary stays in a series of other places.

Jesse and I look at each other, at my expanding stomach, and I think we both get afraid, but he says he isn’t afraid at all. Will our memories of eating snow, of feeling snow on eyelashes, and carrying sleds to hills be memories that our someday-soon (June or July) child will know? And if they know them, will they know those memories the way I knew the ocean: as something of a spectacle, but not a pattern or promise?

It might not matter, but it seems somehow developmental: the winter always in my head or under my skin. And here, the child might know rain and fog, will certainly know tide and wave, and will see trees taller than the pines of my own childhood; will those things sit differently in the body?

winter

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s