Winter endings

 

There is a certain slant of light
On winter afternoons
That oppresses like the weight
Of cathedral tunes.

When it comes, the landscape listens,
Shadows hold their breath;
When it goes, 'tis like the distance
On the look of death.
--Emily Dickinson

 

I have a practice each day of looking for its high point, the peak of the day--not thinking about it after the day is done, but during the day thinking is this the high point...is it this? Usually, I recognize the high point at the time, sometime only as the day draws to a close. But at least I have made myself aware of the passing moments fleeing irretrievably into the past.
Sometimes the high point is making coffee in the morning. I love my morning coffee. I like old-fashioned percolator coffee. It has a nice strong flavor. I like opening the big can of MJB Colombian, inhaling the burst of coffee aroma, scooping out the coffee, pouring in the water, plugging in the pot, listening to the water hiss, then begin to perk, watching the water bubble into the clear lid handle, gradually changing to a rich brown. Then pouring a cup, hot, steaming, holding the cup--my favorite cup, a white mug my grandfather gave me--holding it under my chin so I can feel the steam rising warm over my face, the scent of coffee rushing into my nostrils, then the first scalding sip....
Such a routine thing, such an inconsequential thing. But it can be the best of the day.
Or the best might be slipping into bed at night, dead tired, my body fresh and clean from the shower, the bed warmed by the electric blanket. I lie staring at the ceiling for a second, reach over and click out the bedside lamp, lie listening to the wind outside the window, maybe it's raining, or maybe I can hear the distant hoot of an owl. I close my eyes, tumble into my kaleidoscope of dreams...and it is morning! Time for coffee!
And what goes on in between, well, sometimes it's good and sometimes it's bad, but I always have my coffee and my bed. So it's all good...

 I measure every grief I meet
With analytic eyes;
I wonder if it weighs like mine,
Or has an easier size.

I wonder if it hurts to live,
And if they have to try,
And whether--could they choose between--
It would not be to die.
--Emily Dickinson 

 “At the end as at the start, and through all the in-betweens, I loved you.”
― Amal El-Mohtar