Spring (Draft 3)

"It is affecting to see nature so tender, however old, and wearing nothing of the wrinkles of age."

--Henry David Thoreau, journal

Draft 3

6-30-2013

 

Spring

 

Mother sat at the window, watching snow fall. The frost clouded the glass and eyes. She’d been in that rocking chair three days without a word. I sat by the fire with the newspaper.

               Mother chuckled. I looked up from the crossword. Father stopped prodding at the firewood with the poker. Mother wore a sad smile. “You know, I can’t even remember what the sun feels like,” she said. “That’s strange, isn’t it? How long has it been since I saw the sun?”

               Father shook his head. We’d lost track a few weeks back when the cable went down.

               “I feel trapped.” She clawed her arm, leaving ashy flakes behind.

               “That’s ‘cause we’re snowed in,” said Toby. He sat at her feet, flipping through a book about dinosaurs.

               “No, I feel trapped in time, like the snow that started falling in December is the same snow that’s falling now. We’re in a snow globe.”

               “What’s a seven letter word for regret?” I asked.

               Toby shut his book. “Whose job is it to make springtime?”

               “Mother Nature,” said Father.

               “She’s not doing her job right,” Toby said.

               I snorted. “Maybe she’s underpaid.”

               “How old is Mother Nature?”

               “Older than everyone in the world,” Father said.

               Toby nodded. “That explains it. You know how you said that the reason Grandma forgets things sometimes is because she’s old? If Mother Nature is older than Grandma, she probably forgets things a lot more important than which cupboard the biscuits are in.”

               Father waggled a finger. “Toby has a point. The Earth is very old. Who’s to say there isn’t some planetary form of Dementia?”

               “What’s a five letter word for damp?” I asked.

               Toby grabbed his toes. “Maybe we can remind Mother Nature! Like when I tell Grandma, ‘No, I’m Toby,’ and then she remembers. How loud you think we need to shout for Mother Nature to hear?”

               Father sat in his wicker chair and leaned forward, conspiratorially. “Not in words, but maybe there’s some other way to remind her. You know, like how the first bird song of the year makes it feel like spring has arrived? Something familiar to jog her memory.”

               Mother shook her head. “It’s pointless.”

               “Let’s give it a try,” Toby said.

               Father leapt up. “Come to the kitchen, everyone!” Toby raced after him. Mother didn’t move. The falling snow ran shadows down her face in the half-light. Untouched snow dunes in the front yard swelled crystal by crystal.

               “Don’t you want to see what they’re up to?” I asked.

               She whispered, “I can see my reflection in the glass. I’ve gotten so old sitting here, waiting for the snow to stop. It’s been more than a few weeks, hasn’t it.”

               I paused. “We don’t know.” But maybe, somewhere underneath, we did know. Our biological clocks had kept track for a while. They must have kept time even after the phones died and after the batteries wore out and after we forgot to mark the calendar. But at some point, they had decided to stop divulging the date. Maybe it was the day we put all the fruits and vegetables in the freezer.

               “How long does it take for a sunburn to heal?” Mother asked. How many berries do you pick when you pick berries? What time do the crows wake up?”

               I touched her shoulder. “Spring will come, Momma. Don’t worry.” I held my hand out. She looked away from the window for what might have been the first time in days. She studied my hand, and then my face. I wondered if mine looked as gray as hers. She took my hand and I helped her up.

               Father and Toby were not in the kitchen, but drawers and cabinets had been left open. The back door stood ajar, whistling winter powder onto the floor. The snow bank stood three feet tall, so all I could see outside was the overhang on the house. “Toby?” I called.

               “Almost ready!” his voice from the backyard.

               “Ready for what?” I clawed through the snow, trying to get a foothold.

               “What are you doing?” Mother asked.

               “Come with me.”

               “I’ll be soaked!”

               I scrambled to the top of the snow bank and gasped. “What have you done?” Sleeves of iceberg lettuce dangled from the lowest branches, creating a green canopy that smelled of rain and soil. Three tomatoes thawed in a bed of arugula in the snow. Apples hung from strings above me.

               “Look at the flowers,” Toby said, pointing to red nectarines impaled on upright spoons. “And those ones aren’t done growing yet.” He pointed to a row of celery sticks sprouting from the ice. “And you can even plant your own flower.” He put a bulb in my hand. I looked down. An onion.

               “Are you coming up?” Father called down into the kitchen.

               “You’re going to want to see this!” I shouted.

               Snow shifted and her hand appeared from below. I helped her finish the climb and knock the snow from her robe.

               “Hi, Momma!” Toby said, backing up to let her take in the scene.

               Mother staggered. She looked up at the leaves whispering in the wind, sprinkling fresh dew toward the earth. She looked down to the tulips, sweet-smelling and open, ready for the first bumble bee of the season. From somewhere nearby, a whistle, perhaps a mourning dove or a goldfinch. Toby giggled, and I watched my mother’s face change as she remembered spring.