Bedsheets

winter_by_jjuuhhaa_d1ai7qu
Picture: Juha M. Kinnunen

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.

Silence.

Clarity.

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.

Advertisements

Hibernation

winter edit

Across my social media, I see clips of weather radar,

the current temperature, decreasing

the wind chill,

negative

.

Everyone

in beanies, with scarves

meeting in the middle

so only their eyebrows peek out,

the one patch of fur

growing from our red, raw skin, and

does Minnesota think man

tries to dupe her with synthetic

wolf coats and bear hats

?

I wonder

if she is a little like you,

humoring herself in her unpredictability,

in man’s annual exclamations of “Why do I live here??”

Just when we think we’ve

figured you out,

you send the first snowstorm and we’ve all forgotten

how to drive.

Are we so arrogant,

these synthetic-fur-wearing-warm-blooded settlers,

that we jump our batteries

and flex our four-wheel-drives

in recognition of our superpower,

busyness

?

I wonder

if you long to be noticed

in the way

I walk out the door

and my breath momentarily

fogs the lenses over my eyes.

 

In the way

the snow lies naked and white,

a mercy-covering for fallow ground,

majestic in its glittering beauty

and quiet in its boast.

 

In the way

the sun shines brightest, clearest

the colder the temperature

falls.

 

In the way

you are sovereign over every degree

and send a bitter wind to see

if we will stop

.

And pay attention to the truth:

 

that your beauty

is revealed in adversity,

 

that you are never

in a hurry

,

that you long to quell

every fear and anxiety–

which will surface in the slowness–

with a mercy-covering like snow,

 

and

 

that you give us this day our daily bread,

the aboriginal rest

our bred-in-captivity lies can never slice

or deliver.