MEASURING WINTER /d
- Waking to winter snow often requires every iota of energy; your favorite bathrobe on the door, a continent away.
- The Ghosts of the House gathered around you in your sleep last night, you’re quite sure, in communal whisper, hushing it was all going to be okay from the ceiling. Heat rises and they, too, without flesh around attenuated bones, are cold.
- The House has gone very cold overnight; a hundred gallons of heating oil was not delivered yesterday, as scheduled. Call when the office opens; light the fire with the latest stack of discarded drafts for the two hours before you need to alight in the metal-box chariot for the day job.
- Stalk with your stronger eye the rising winter light above the pines when you take the dog out after your first cup of coffee. Note the iridescent glistening at the edges of branches from yesterday’s new snow and the forecast for rain. If you don’t don your hooded winter coat, an umbrella in order.
- Write a note to stop at the post office for Christmas stamps for the cards you are definitely going to send out this year and mail the two parcels of books to Pennsylvania and Kentucky.
- A hot shower with the bathroom door closed will loosen the stiffness in your neck, back, and knees from sleep. If you open the drawer to the vanity next to the door, the cat will not intrude successfully, dispersing the steam.
- Don’t obsess about the medical test results in yesterday’s mail atop the kitchen counter where you left it for future worry. Press delay.
- Driving on the roads winding through the proliferating snow-laced trees, lean into the road and don’t panic about the eighteen-wheeler to your right amidst the relentless rain; take heed of what the Ghosts proclaimed. Pray the rain doesn’t wash away all the snow from last week, so there may be a white Christmas in Connecticut.
- Remind yourself that it is, as the calendar indicated before you left the House, Friday, and nothing will change that. Friday the 13th, but you don’t believe that the Gemini full moon will impact that number. It’s just a human construct, the dates, the time, to make it all manageable, compartmentalize infinity, no?
- The blank canvas of the weekend looms out the dashboard window, out into the skies blanketed with clouds of milk that has turned gray, past its date of recommended purchase.
- Visit the pawn shop tomorrow to see if the small cello for sixty dollars has been sold.
- Don’t miss exit 8 on the highway like you did yesterday. Pay attention; it all goes on without _____. [you].
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