Today I’m chasing color

a cursory fugitive through invisible towns,

snow blind and losing sight of the mountains

letting myself vanish

into backroads.

I stop for gas in a microscopic town

the friendliest in America, it’s undeniable

where I see only the restful eyes of an old man

readjusting his gloves to scrape the ice off my window.

The honeyed wrinkles of ladies inside

say that if he had any toes he can’t feel them.

They say there are some women who won’t fill up

unless he’s there

unsalaried, they say.

I give him a dollar

which he takes but doesn’t want to take.

 

Now I am the one paying it forward.

 

Today she broke my heart.

I knew it would happen–

the day she would come home to tell me

about the whispering

and the hurt feelings–

the day when all you can do is hold her

and let the tears fall

wishing she knew what I know about frivolity

and how beautiful she is

and how the girl who hurt her is beautiful too.

Two days ago, I watched her smile

when we searched through books on the computer.

She’s been dreaming of horses

and so we ordered a book to match her dreams.

And today, when the tears stopped and she stood up straight again,

I watched her from the window

fly through the snow that clung to her trail of hair

across the yard rousing the birds from their trees

towards the mailbox

and return moments later

with a grin as big as the horse on the cover of her new book

and then back into the arms of our house again,

to read.

We are sitting in Church on Christmas Eve,

the choir has begun its adagio hum of Silent Night.

Outside we hear faint sounds

of the coming and going of cars

on the one main road that goes through town.

There used to be three dove prints

perfectly greased on the window to the pulpit’s side–

broad wingspans, thinking they could fly through;

now the cold has frosted them over

and oversized snowflakes fall to herald their loss.

They are angels now,

the voices.

My youngest son grips the plastic cup and candle within—

dancing eyes transfixed by the flame.

Wax drips into something permanent,

and trying hard to steady his hand

he tilts the flame to catch in mine

thus we go down the line, to the giant eyes of my middle child; the dreaming ones of my eldest.

One by one the candles light,

the voices fade

and snow cases the ground outside.