Gloves from My Father

Walking by the river, ice patches looking like odd shaped belugas floating down stream, the only thing revealing that the river is fluid, snow blowing, heavy, wet, southwest at my back, I walk towards the woods for sanctuary, for solace on the sixth anniversary of my father's death.

I've missed him more this year than in recent years, the realization of loss heavier than years past for no reason that I can easily explain.

I walk along with earbuds whispering dreamlike downbeat rhythm, it's cold, but I'm warm, a good feeling as I make fresh steps in the powder that suspends reality, geese honk over the music in my ears, I am at once at peace and longing...

I look down at my hands, new gloves, gloves from my father-in-law to replace
the gloves of my father, worn leather, finally comfortable, thumb starting to split, stolen from my coat downtown Rosebud, I guess someone's hands were colder than mine, a brief aggravation, now a gift, a passing on of something very practical from my father and father-in-law to keep my hands warm, fingers protected and heart connected...




Stopping By Woods On A Snowy Evening by Robert Frost

Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.
My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.
He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound's the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.
The woods are lovely, dark and deep.
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.