Barred 3 - February

The days are longer now. Frost still clings to trees and snow still falls in unexpected flurries. I wake up to blankets of snow on my head, on the branches of needles and thistles above me. There are fewer things more spectacular, more propitious than the new year turning with a jacket of snow. Welcome and exciting. A fresh coat of paint on a cold, grim world. Now, just a few weeks later when the bear moon shines brightly in the shortening nights, a surprise snow is a reminder that we are still nowhere near. Warm days and long summer breezes reaching across the forest are as far away as they are close. I am starting to forget what the warmth of the sun feels like.

I come to a maple tree and the chrysalis of a black swallowtail dangles above me like a bat. Inside is a dormant wonder, waiting patiently to break free and recolor the world that has forgotten the hues of summer. The tones of spring and late fall that push us through this flicker of brown and white. Forest greens and ruby reds. Aster yellows and vibrant oranges. Even the spectrum of light and dark blues that dominate the sky has been forgotten. I see patches here and there in ferns that are a pleasant reminder that green still exists here in this forest. I hold hope in the reddening limbs of immature maples waiting to erupt. Today is pleasant, the fast-moving clouds above yield the occasional tinge of blue that peaks through the skinny branches atop the canopy. The wind is down and on occasion the sun peaks and lets itself known. A reminder that it does still exist and sooner rather than later it will be here to stay. For now, it passes back underneath an endless gray sheet.

I like to watch them come and go. Bicker about their little things the way only a family does. Who left the wood where and who hasn’t started the food. Silly, but vital arguments in life that until you are freed from you cannot see just how crucial they are.

Through the trees I see late evening movement. Just beyond the house in the grove of birches. Little reddish-brown bodies of cardinals flitter around in pockets, stark against the milk white peeling paper birches and frosted branches. The marked eyeshadows of waxwings dart around, coming into my focus for a moment before stealing away, their light brown feathers disappearing behind a backdrop of maple trees that litter the forest around the house. The pink bellies and foreheads of the redpolls dance against the white snow and brown bushes. Chasing each other over what little they can find. A seed left unburied in shallow snow. A nut left out by careless Pen as she tries to read her book and snack in the cold February afternoon. A chrysalis left too perilously on the edge of the birch tree. It won’t know any different. Calmly gone in its sleep, prey to a hungry winter belly.

They are finishing their days in a flurry of motion, while my eyes are just waking up.

The house’s front door opens and the bird’s scatter. Two cardinals fight over a seed in their mouth; they disappear into the thicket. I hear the chirping at one another, but I cannot see who won the prize. I don’t mind, not a prize I want. Tom steps out the front door, its hinges squeaking as it slams shut, echoing into the woods. He looks like his father. Looks more like his grandfather. Strong jawed and stout. His messy brown hair is tucked loosely into a bright orange beanie. Strings of hair poke out everywhere. He moves them out of his eyes, behind his red ears. His hands are tucked firmly into a brown coat that fits tight on his hips. His light brown corduroys are cuffed above a pair of muddy, well salted, brown leather boots.

To me, everyone looks young, but he is a man no doubt.

Tom leans against the wooden railing. He looks over the open side porch and wanders over. The porch winds around to the back of the house. Looking down over the hill that drops straight off the back of the house. A slice of rocky cake.

The white pines that line the creek running away from the house carry snow on every branch. Their bare, lower branches make for good watching. White and yellow birches fill the hollow. Moss grows up their patchy bark, searching for solace away from the frozen ground. In the summer you can reach out and touch their jagged leaves. Now, though, they litter the covered ground below half a foot of snow.

Tom stops and takes in the view. I can see his face. He looks cold and vacant. My pine stand sits resolutely a hundred yards to my left. A sentinel above the small pond and the driveway that sneaks down the hill behind it. In the spring I won’t come here. It is too busy with woodpeckers and bugs crawling amongst the branches. Hungry for running sap and juicy worms. But now, when the syrup is locked up like solid gold, it is calm. I like the view of the house from here. Clear and unobscured.

Someone else steps out of the house. The porch creaks under Lily’s heavy boots. Her coat is zipped up to her chin and a wool cap covers all but her bright blue eyes. I remember first seeing those eyes. She never made it hard to know what was in her head or heart. Her eyes told you everything you needed to know.

She looks around for a moment, before spotting Tom standing alone. She steps closer to him and soon they are both leaning against the rail and looking out into the evening. The sun fades slower this time of year. The porch always gets the best of the late day sun.

“Have you heard from her lately?” Lily asks. I can see she’s probing. Her voice echoes into the woods.

“No, she still wants some space,” Tom says back, “with Granddad and everything it honestly hasn’t been on my mind as much.” He pauses and looks up into the forest. “First time I’ve felt okay in months, actually.”

“You know you’ll have to talk to her eventually, one way or the other,” she says. She’s looking over at him now.

“I know, mum,” his voice is louder now. He rubs his hands together. The glint of the ring on his finger catches the brief sun glare peeking through the clouds again. He spins it on his dry fingers. “It’s just been nice being here. My mind feels a little clearer.”

“I’m just being your mum,” she puts a soft hand on his back. “You know you can stay here as long as you like. Relationships are hard work sometimes, but the right ones are always worth working on.”

Tom looked up at her in surprise. I lean closer. I can sense the hesitation in Tom and the eagerness in Lily to help. Her eyes are focused softly on him.

“You and Dad?”

“Yeah, Tommy, there was a time when things were hard for us,” Lily looks down in embarrassment, “I did things I’m not proud of and your father and I worked through those them, together. Made us stronger, I think. We had something to fight for to help us through.” She reached up and moved a lock of hair out of Tom’s face. “Granddad always told me to put those emotions to good use.”

They let a long pause exist between them. The sun inches lower and the cardinals dancing in the bush below call birdie, birdie to one another before disappearing into the woods beyond the house, passing the snow-covered roof and out of sight.

“I miss him, mum,” Tom says. This time he turned to his mother, and they hug. She holds his head in her hand, pressing it to the nook of her shoulder.

“Me too, Tommy,” she whispers, “but he built most of this place himself, I like to think there’s pieces of him littered all around. I like to think he’s still here, in every loose plank of wood and pile of mud.” She kicked the porch railing softly and it creaked in response.

Tom laughs and wipes his nose and eyes with the back of his raw hand.

“Uncle Benj said he could use some help stocking the shelves at the store,” Tom starts again, “thought that could be a nice thing to do for a month while I get my head on straight.”

“He’d never say this,” she leans in closer to him, as if Benj is right beside her, “but I bet that would make your uncle about as happy as anything,” Lily says to him, “plus I think Pen likes having you around too while she figures her stuff out. We all do.”

Tom smiles at that and gives her a hug from the side. They stand together and look out to the woods. It’s dark now and overhead Orion belt shines through the smattering of quivering, bare oak and maple canopies.

“Let’s go inside, I think it’s about time you made us some gin and tonics.”

“Seems like a fair exchange for letting me stay,” Tom responds.

They disappear behind the creaking screen door. The chimney top spouts tendrils of smoke. Only a few whisps at first before a plume of smokestacks rise into the air. I can smell pine logs burning brightly, crackling through the wide opening of the chimney. I close my eyes and feel its warmth. Feel the leather sofa envelope my tired bones.

Just then a rabbit passes below me, it darts under the car parked out front of the porch. He blindly heads for his bush, his safety. I follow him. I chart his path before he does it himself. He darts out again from under the car towards the bush. Towards the base of the pine. I swoop down. I can hear his feet scurrying along the snow, his nose is twitching left and right. In an instant he turns to his right but I have him. No turn is sharp enough to avoid it. He’s in my grasp before he can make another. He wriggles and I tighten. His wriggling stops.

Far away from the reaches of the fire and lamp lights of the house standing resolute in the cold I sit on my oaken branch. The rabbit is warm and enriches me. Below me a beaver scurries by, in its mouth it carries a bundle of sticks. His tail softly pads the snow as he moves through forest, towards the stream. I can hear it rushing faintly in the distance. Down the slope to the lake just beyond. The beaver stops and looks around. He pauses at the base of my tree. He drops his sticks and tests the hard wood with his teeth. He takes a bite and stops. Sniffs and holds his head close to the wood. I call down at him.

Leave me alone! Go find your dam!

With that he scurries off. His sticks dragging the snow behind him. Leaving me to my forest and my rabbit.

I hear piano music far away. I hear the soft rushing of the busy stream, carrying cold water to the lake. A screech echoes through the forest. Leafless branches tickle each other high in the air. Stars pass between the swinging skinny fingers.

A dipper pours dazzling, sparkling light across the indigo sky.