This being the first day when the fluffy stuff falls
over the lawn and meadow, it’s too cold
to meditate in front of the open door.
Still, I carry my turquoise mug outside
and stand
in the whip of the wind.
Snowflakes fall into my coffee.
This is a day when there is nothing
pressing.
So I go very slowly. I bundle up and
take a walk.
Then back to the mat to do yoga.
In between I am visited by a
an image that scours out my heart.
It is November, 1960, and
I am seven years old. My birthday
is coming in a day or two.
But my family has just been
uprooted from Connecticut
to upstate New York
where my dad has a good job
with IBM. Health benefits.
A pension.
When we moved into the
brand new Cape Cod house
the upstairs where we three kids sleep
is just two-by-fours
and thick chunks of insulation
the color of pink flesh.
That was such a scary time.
I’m remembering my baby
sister crying and saying she
wanted to go back home to
her “real house.” I remember
my mother, distracted.
I am pretty sure she
was deeply sad, so homesick,
and scared shitless being two hours
away from her beloved parents and
family.
Suddenly I am determined
to run away.
I leave by the back door in the garage.
I wander through the
neighborhood of white houses.
Snow is crusty on
the ground and ice is in
my chest.
I’m not sure but I think I
cried, feeling sorry for myself.
Because it was almost
my birthday and that was supposed
to be a happy time and
I am not happy at all.
At some point I
decided there was no
point in running away.
In my mind, I am still
so awfully sad. I am still poised
by the back door into the
garage. My hand is in a mitten
and my heart is empty.
Today I see that little girl
and she is still crying. I
hold her in my memory
and wrap my arms around
her tightly. I pray that she may
know how much she was
loved then and
now.
