Sleeping Early

It is arctic cold. I went to see Ani on my way home. Last night’s snow has gracefully covered granite and grass. I wanted to clean her headstone; then I thought it was better the way it looked.
Sat there for a while. I remembered the first snow she saw. The first snowball she threw. The first red, frostbitten cheeks of hers.

I recalled the long nights when Ani would not sleep. Holding her upon my chest, on the rocking chair, and sleeping together. Recalled her breath. The gentle kicks she placed upon my ribs when dreaming.

… Since Ani’s death, I have been going to bed early. I thought it was age, tiredness, and the lack of joy. But tonight, in the arctic cold, I suddenly realized that it was the anticipation to see her in my dreams. To tell her “see love, it is snowing outside!”

Then I walked back, trying to step in the same steps I had taken going down the hill to her grave. When I got to my car, I looked back. In the snow, there seemed to be only one set of prints, as if from a one way trip. Indeed, it was. The man who went to his daughter’s grave was not the same who came back, up the hill.

February 7, 2007