Outside our apartment, sparrows
gather on barren branches, puffing their chests out and singing the cold away.
Squirrels hunt for hidden caches of nuts, wishing they could remember where
they’d been carefully tucked away. In the grey light of early morning, the
stray cats slink into basements seeking warmer berth, leaving tracks in the
fresh snow to greet us.
Upon waking, we rise and brew
coffee to drink and coffee to share, slipping feet into furry shoes and grabbing
the shawls that lay strewn aside chairs in wait. We fill the feeder outside with
seeds for the birds and strew nuts about the yard for the skittering squirrels.
We leave a bowl of kibble at the back of the house for the cats with no family
to take them in. I don’t believe in not feeding the wildlife. We are all animal
kin and we are living where their forests used to be.
Each morning we are grateful for
the breath that hangs in smoky clouds against the cold. It means we are alive. We
are grateful for the layers that warm us and the walls that shelter us.
I set a cup of coffee on the table for
my Grandpa Dick’s spirit. When I was a child, he was the only one I knew who
drank it. The smell of the bean still reminds me of him, even though he drank
instant. My Grandpa remembered when they didn’t have coffee because of
rationing and it reminds me to be grateful for the plenty we have daily.
I light candles for my ancestors,
for those who struggled against cold and hunger and sickness… so that I might
be here, in my heated home, wrapped in woolen shawls, my hands around a mug of
steaming tea. I think of those loved by my family who were unknown to me, my
Great-Grandpa Harold and my Grandma Ruth. I wonder about my Great-Grandma
Margaret, who died when her daughter was eight. I think of my
Great-Grandparents Royal and Hattie.
In the waking light, in my home
with my family, I cannot help but remember those I loved who are no longer with
me: my Great-Grandma Elsie, my Grandma Donna and Grandpa Dick. They were all
parents to me. My Grandpa Mark exists only as a single memory in my head, but I
remember him, too. I love him for the father he was to mine. Every morning I
remember Luna and Bella. And every day the grief is less and the memories
happier.
On winter mornings, we sit in the
silence, stretching out our hearts and thoughts. We have gratitude for our family
and friends we feel waking in their own homes, tugging at the strings of the
web that connects us all. Though we are not geographically close, we are never
far away. The web we share blankets the earth and there is great comfort in
that.
In the winter we light fires and
candles and turn thermostats to fight away the cold. I hold our sacred web against the dark days and the gloom of the world. As morning brightens, and
days lengthen, we feed our cats, shovel our sidewalk, and take a moment to enjoy
a late morning cup of tea together, drinking in the stillness of the season.
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