WINTER WALKING, WINTER TEA

Wanting to walk faster, but one has to be careful walking in the snow …. Walking past hedges wearing expensive looking ermine wraps …. Walking under dark empty trees – with raised arms …. Walking down these cold white sidewalks…. You never know where there might be black ice beneath the snow, beneath one’s feet. Walking – talking to myself. I wasn’t hearing the sound of stepped on snow. I didn’t hear the snow complaining that my steps were ruining the canvas – the work of art being formed on the street just beneath my feet. Talking and walking with oneself is good. On today’s walk I was only hearing past words – memories – remembering talking to you about so many things in those wonderful conversations we’ve had on winter afternoons. Then there was tea – Irish tea – and so many slices of freshly baked rye bread from the Neighborhood Bakery – with cold butter – the knife making that acute cutting cold butter clinking sound on plate – and then with knife and fingers putting the butter on the bread – the bread you went and bought in the cold when I called and said, “I’ll be home this afternoon.” That was so long ago. Today walking in the falling snow – grey misty sky – evokes so many memories. You’re dead. You rise in the remembering – along with cold butter, rye bread, hot tea, and walking in the snow – and those long afternoon conversations. You’re dead now. It’s winter. I miss you and at times as time becomes years, I’m afraid I’m starting to hear the sound of snow instead of you as I walk down these winter streets. I miss you mom.

© Andy Costello, Reflections, 2010