In my spirit, everything is white.
Like clean bedsheets. Like freshly laundered blankets and sheets and pillowcases whispering on the line.
Like light pouring through the window onto bare walls—not sunlight, varying in its golden tints, but plain, white light.
As this morning: the winter sky is overcast, though not slate-gray, but salt-white; and snow falls in the lightest, tiniest grains.
It is white above and white below,
and white coming through every opening to reach my soul.
Is this what it is to be a young wife?
White. Space. Peace.
Like snowflakes, quietly, exquisitely in freefall. The white, the space, the clarity, the snow—they fall around me with purpose: a mercy-covering for the ground in the cold season, blanketing seeds long-sown that will emerge with life and color in the spring.
Mercy for the hibernation.
I am slumbering under a cloud of white blankets and sheets, stirring long enough to turn over and find your body next to mine—still a surprise.
I’m not yet used to the permanence of your presence, this home you have made in my deepest places… and at the same time,
the recollection of life before you is slipping away.