I fell into an odd space the other day. Someone who did not mean any harm pushed me in. She sat down next to me and asked, ‘So how are your parents doing? Are they both well?’
Right after I slid into that odd space, my brain opened up and there was a long tunnel into which I stepped. It was the day of the season’s first real snow. Our neighborhood lay deep in crystal sugar buttercream and the rows of stunning eggplant red maple trees, which had not yet shed their leaves, were startled into suddenly dropping thousands of red gems on top of the white stuff and everything looked like a marvelous cake. Dad loved cake.
‘My Dad died almost six years ago’. I responded without rancor because I did not feel rancor. It was truth and I wasn’t interested in watching this well meaning soul attempt to dig herself out of an awkward social moment, but of course that is what she started to do. It seemed to limp along forever, but the whole conversation lasted ten seconds. ‘Everything is good’, I responded. ‘No worries’. She dug herself back up and out and faced me eye to eye.
‘I’m so sorry. I did not know…’ she faltered. ‘Really, it’s fine’ I tried again. ‘He’s fine. We are fine. Don’t worry’. I was back in the tunnel walking through, thinking to myself, ‘How much is actually back in here?’ We climbed together, she and I, side by side out of that hole and I excused myself, moving on to other conversations.
I drove home and as the car bent around the corner of the swirling Genesee river at the edge of the boat houses, I watched a whirlwind of grey snow surge up over the road, grasping and slapping at another tree. It was an oak which was chock full of bright yellow leaves. They skittered off and up and around and over the road, some landing on water to sink and others left skipping reluctantly along the road’s edge. The brute force of the new season required it.
You caught me on the day of the season’s first true snow, when everything looked like a marvelous cake. Dad loved cake.
690 Saint Paul 