Author name: ozweaver

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It seems every holiday is balanced with a share of grief.  Perhaps winter celebrations were established to balance our sufferings through these dark months.

This is a study for a larger tapestry I still haven’t made.  The bigger idea is not ready yet, but at the time of the study I made a list of mothers I know who had lost their children.  I just added one more name to that list.

And yesterday I found this poem mixed in with my cache of knitting patterns:

What the Living Do

Johnny, the kitchen sink has been clogged for days, some utensil probably fell down there.
And the Drano won’t work but smells dangerous, and the crusty dishes have piled up

waiting for the plumber I still haven’t called.  This is the everyday we spoke of.
It’s winter again: the sky’s a deep headstrong blue, and the sunlight pours though

the open living room windows because the heat’s on too high in here, and I can’t turn it off.
For weeks now, driving, or dropping a bag of groceries in the street, the bag breaking,

I’ve been thinking:  This is what the living do.  And yesterday, hurrying along those
wobbly bricks in the Cambridge sidewalk, spilling my coffee down my wrist and sleeve,

I thought it again, and again later, when buying a hairbrush:  This is it.
Parking.  Slamming the car door shut in the cold.  What you called that yearning.

What you finally gave up.  We want the spring to come and the winter to pass.  We want
whoever to call or not call, a letter, a kiss — we want more and more and then more of it.

But there are moments, walking, when I catch a glimpse of myself in the window glass,
say, the window of the corner video store, and I’m gripped by a cherishing so deep

for my own blowing hair, chapped face, and unbuttoned coat that I’m speechless:
I am living.  I remember you.

—Marie Howe

I promise to be more upbeat for the rest of the month…