The snow is thick and wet this morning. More like November snow than February, which is usually dry and light. No one else is up yet; you’re letting the girls sleep because it’s a snow day, But you don’t have much longer alone. You can hear the pine trees snapping under the winter weight. The smaller, older branches just give in. But you don’t hear them hit the ground. For all you know, they could still be falling.
You are thinking of your grandmother. She called every day after the baby died, though she rarely mentioned the baby. She wanted to know what you were making for dinner. She wanted to know that you were making dinner. She wanted you to know the day will pass. You still can hear saying, “I cain’t believe…” when you tell her how cold it is. She’s looking out her window at the azaleas ready to bloom. Twelve years after she has died, they are still blooming.
You have had seven dreams in the past 13 nights. Three you barely remember. Four of them have been the same. Your house, the house you live in, but you turn the corner and a new room appears, small and crowded, but you love it. You don’t want to tell anyone it’s here and wonder how you didn’t know all these years, the room was here. Someone is calling your name. Someone from one of the other three dreams. They are still calling.
You used to sit in your office and sigh, loudly enough to be heard down the hall. She would walk by; some days she would ask what’s wrong, but other days, because you were like her brother, she would tell you to shut up. Get over it. You’d laugh. You don’t remember any of that. You have shrugged off this rag and bone shop. But she hasn’t. She can hear you, sighing, still.
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