The part of me that feels relieved when winter comes is the part of me that used to spend the day ALL DAY in the pool when I was a little girl.
It was my form of hibernation.
Underwater, echoey, stark, alone, oppressed, blurry, bare, wrinkled and pickled—-this was heaven to me.
I’d take a plastic boat, turn it over to cover the indented space that was the place where one could sit while being in the pool and I’d create a little igloo. For hours, I’d sit there, listening to my own breathing.
Certain trees in winter remind me of that feeling of absolute, practically unbearable silence—large, inescapable, scary silence. Silence that nudges you to remember everything absent. Silence that unsettles even against the backdrop of a vibrant blue sky.
There is all the hullabaloo and the crazy rusharoo and the dread and the excitement and the slight hope and then there is the fact that all of it is going round and round, dying and living and working to replenish itself and no matter how many winters I rally myself to decorate I always always, in my melancholy heart, have a storyline that tugs at the part of me that keeps track of all the beloveds I’ve lost while at the same time making sure to check on the ratio of green to red to pink to blue lights so that when I look outside, especially if it’s chilly and raining, I can be happy that the sparkle is absolutely glowingly as beautiful as it could possibly be.
Yours In James Joyce Feelings,
Irma in All Black