Beacon

On my walk to Fluffy’s grave today – in the grove of the orchard down the yard – I glanced behind to see my footprints in a fresh, December flush of powder snow.

I dusted off his tomb, mumbling to his bones about loving and not forgetting him, but left the snow on the marker stone for better visibility from my room.

Returning to the patio, I was gripped by a vivid, visual memory of my boys tobogganing down our little hill, cheeks red, winter laughter (slightly muted by the dry acoustics of snow spaces).

I wanted to see them again – here, and young, sheltered from our dystopian pandemic future.

So much loss in the air back here – my mother the year before, Fluffy 18 months in (at 16 years), Dad before we imagined any of it.

I plunk myself onto the chaise lounge. I carefully touch the fur clipping I keep stuck to the bottom of the cushion. I watch my boys. I hear them laugh. I long for them.

I close my eyes to see the living while I weep in the company of the dead.

– emn December, 2021