Awake

Not sleeping; I get up and let the awake have its way. My brain is ready to go, says something in the universe is not right and I must find it. I listen to the cats letting their feet fall heavy, moving from bed to floor to tub and back again. As I imagine I would if I were them; I would count the tiny steps it would take to touch every surface of this house, then count them backward.

A Mild Minute

Windows in the front of the house thrown open, yawning; our home inhales through its teeth. It is warm in February again. It feels like a gift; a minute to wipe the stale off of everything, to remember what it feels like to move about without socks and sweaters, to dream of things growing again. A mild minute we won't pay for or regret, because summer is not next, not yet. 

A five-line note from the author

Many apologies for the dormancy of this blog. But rest assured, it's not dead, only sleeping. Keep checking in, if you will, and the February funkies will work themselves out. To everyone who regularly checks this blog out, thank you very much. Your attention is much appreciated. It wouldn't be the same without you. Stay tuned, and stay awesome. 

Meditation

Breathing deep, like I am often told to do, I bring anxiety even to that task. Any purposeful, self-conscious act feels like the opening of a jar of ants. Tiny swarms of movement, it can feel like motion is more calming than stillness; but this is the onion peeled only halfway. My nerves fight hard to survive at any cost, building the lie that nothing, not even breath, is underneath.

Heat

From the second floor, I hear the furnace turning on; a solid, building churn. A moment after, the radiators gurgle with water sounds. I cannot understand the mechanics, except to imagine this fire roaring in the cellar, bringing the blood in the house's veins to a boil. Somewhere a thermometer trips it all on, and the whole cycle happens without needing anything from me.

Early

Five forty five am, and the trains sound at the same time they always have for at least my forty years. I hear them here, in this house just a couple miles from the house where my father would wake me up to go with him. To deer hunting, to Mass, to who knows where else. Before light, feeling the hundred pound weight of early, the trains announced a whole world of already awake.

A Dusting

Snow, light but catching the outer stubble of the used-to-be-green spaces; coating the roofs of cars like skull caps. On the hood of the old truck is a snow outline of the structure beneath, bare in the warm spots, leaving the impression of some weird square snow angel. This is what they call a dusting; but here, these days, it might be the season's big snow. Not enough, not close.