Cold . . . comfort
Image by Victius
Sun's coming up.
I'm returning from my walk with the girls.
On such days, Charlotte is only too happy to go inside.
She wants some front-yard time.
Cora and I follow her.
The top layer of snow is thin and crunchy as we step on it,
the girls with their four paws, me with two booted feet.
I can't resist.
I'm not dressed right for this.
Oh, who cares?
I lay myself down and feel the crunch give way to plush snow.
I love the sound, as if I were crumbling saltines.
Snow cradles my head with damp coolness,
and I look up at the sky as it lightens.
Fat white flakes filter through bare oak limbs
and land with little stings on my nose.
The girls cannot believe their luck.
Cora dives her face into layers of snow,
lifting little tufts up, grinning.
Sprinkles of whiteness dot her snout.
She is gloriously happy.
Shouldn't I be colder?
Is this what it's like to be dead?
Not so bad, really.
But such an odd thought.
Odd, yet somehow comforting.
I try to make a snow angel
but the girls decide to wrestle
where I move my arms.
Their huffing sounds make me laugh.
What must the neighbors be thinking--
if any of then are up?
One moment of joy in a time of sorrow.