FEBRUARY
Driving on the back roads, snow-covered fields rolling outon either side, like the gauze that covers my foot and ankle,
the wound that just won’t heal. An abscess like an absence,
this blank landscape, the black alphabet of trees. It’s
too cold to be out; small animals huddle in burrows
or shelter in hedgerows. Too cold for most birds
to be flying. Already, the losses adding up: my cousin’s
husband who didn’t wake up; high school friends, two of them,
who’ve walked down that long corridor; the friend I talked to
every week who suddenly couldn’t breathe in the middle
of the night. It’s the season of no return, no coming back
with the green grass and crocuses doing their hocus-pocus
with purple and gold scarves. No, this is what isn’t:
the unreturned phone call, the unanswered text,
the unwritten email, the empty chair. This is it, the last
inning, the final quarter, the must-be-met deadline
for my age group, the actuarial clock ticking.
Every field, every hollow, fills up with snow.
~Barbara Crooker
