To While Away the Winter

Tags

Abstract, Black and White, Drear, Experimental, Fractured Self, Introspection, Micro Play, Nature, Prose, Sea, Water, Winter

“Why are you here, talking to me now, after—so many years?”

“I guess all the frolicking wore me down.”

“Unlikely. I used to see you coming down the street. I’d dissolve out of sight so you wouldn’t—You were always alone.”

“I never did stay longer than a night.”

“Did you ever see me?”

“I did.”

“Did it—did you feel anything?”

“I did.”

“But you kept cantering on. A beautifully proud and stoic Gran Cavallo.”

“A nag out to pasture.”

“I used to wish I could become you. I still do.”

“Grow a beard and thick wrists?”

“Do you know what I think?”

“Probably.”

“I think one day, perhaps, part of my skull shall be found beneath a vending machine.”

“That won’t happen. You’re never around anyone brutal enough.”

“You’re not brutal enough?”

“Maybe.”

“It’s a brightly coloured vending machine, surrounded by snow-laden trees. And everything’s glazed in a thick pelt of ice. And it just sits there, soundless and devoid of use—offering cold drinks in a place where there are no summers. And underneath will be a little piece of my parietal bone—and a pale little springtail, no bigger than a centimeter—will find it. He’ll squiggle in delight, and use it as a lean-to to ease his eyes against the drone of the lights overhead—and there he’ll remain—to while away the winter.”

“A winter that never ends.”

“Maybe it will…I can feel sympathy for strange things.”

“It’s been so long since we’ve done this…”

“Yes. Rather sudden but natural—like the Rorschach of a deer misting across the morning commute.”

“Did you think I’d come back?”

“I didn’t think I’d…be here to find out.”

“Thought I’d forget you?”

“Ha. Like remembering a robin’s egg, found crushed in the grass on a cold spring day. Just a flash of amnion in the mud.”

“You said grass before.”

“Another non-sequitur. So many, so many. Could list them to the equator and back. But why come back…”

“I did miss you.”

“And I you.”

“You could never become me, you know—I’m not, I’m not whole.”

“I know. I know.”

“Did you ever—find that face?”

“Do you see one now?”

(No reply)

“Flakelets are scattering. Can you hear them?”

“Yes.”

“Like tiny white beetles ricocheting against a black tarp. I must bed down immediately. That clicking noise will put me right to sleep.”

“I’m going, I’m going.”

“Did you go already?”

(Silence)

“Will you come back?”

(Silence)

“I guess you’ve gone. I can ease back now, let these arms bond to the earth, and analyze the entropy of this zigzag roof—see how long it takes for those holes to turn into denticled tears…”

A Winter’s Day, Long Ago

Tags

Black and White, Cats, Fire, Memories, Photos, Snow, Story, Winter

I remember a winter’s day, long ago. My mum and I had completely finished our hearth project, with its peachy-tan grout and smooth-textured, ash grey tiles. Buddha, the large, black cat with marble green eyes, instantly sprawled on those cool tiles before a freshly-built, impassioned, late-morning fire of orange ludic flame.

As early darkness swathed the little room, shadows began to swim across the pale walls and stream along the textured ceiling.

A little copper pot with patterned slats carved in its raised lid, bubbled and hummed gently atop the coal-black, wood-burning stove. Mesmerizing plumes of pale steam crawled through the air and dissipated over us.

The room smelled of wood, cranberry and cinnamon.

There was charcoal on my hands.

Wee sparrows and chickadees floated just outside the window. They underwent a final prance in the frigid air and suddenly vanished- to roost for the night in the quiet forest just beyond our little abode on the hill.

We painted together, that day, as evening descended.

Snow was flitting in coy wisps outside and an ardent wind was whirling around, sculpting sharp-edged snow statues in the yard.

Cats pranced about us as we painted on the floor. The wily felines attempted to surreptitiously dip their paws in the white and the blue, for snow and sky; the slate grey for shadow; and the hint of smoky evergreen for glisks of spruce.

The tuxedo cat, Katey Blue, managed to succeed, her white socked foot with the little black spot, coated in vibrant red, for cardinals. She deposited wee red paw-prints on the great slab of wood we were painting, quickly covered by an evening sky filled with tortuous flakes of snow, creating a pinch of flowing purple.

We finished our acrylic mural, Kate smiling as she left more prints on the floor that were quickly mopped up, the house reverberating with our chiming laughter and Kate’s haughty feline chortles.

We carried our collaborative work out back onto the snow-swathed deck to spray it with an acrid-smelling sealant. Buddha escaped onto the snow-clad surface, gliding and sliding like a child, and proceeded to make snow-balls with his giant, furry black paws, batting his creations up into the air playfully in a flurry of snow.

When we had completed our task, we opened the sliding door to recede back into the warmth of the house. The giant cat bolted back inside beneath our feet as we stumbled along and instantly flobbed before the fire in a serene and palpable peace- as if he had never left.

We continued toward the front door with our mural and soon were out in the gelid snow-scene once more, Kate looking on, with the air of a feline prophet, lime-green eyes gleaming through the glass of the side-window.

We set the mural of four gruntled, spritely carolers out front, before the silent white flowerbed cast in blue shade, illuminated in the beam of a spotlight, where flickering flakes of snow could be seen cursitating and swirling swiftly in the night.

 

Goodnight Greetings from the fire-side,

-Katey Blue