Saturday, February 20, 2021 angel tear upon the cheek of love

The other day as my world began to take on the cloak of night, just before all lay in artificial moonlight, curtesy of my next door neighbors flood lamp; I unhooked the tie back to let the bedroom curtain hang limp, and a small rush of excitement caused me to hold my breath as I caught a brief glimpse of a large rabbit hopping through the snow and disappearing into the bushy grass haven of my very small prairie.  It was a good ending to a freezing day of falling sleet, which reminded me so much of the sound of dried oak leaves still hanging on the tree rustling in the wind, followed by the silent fall of snow.

If you know me at all, you know my next move was to investigate the not so tempting world of wild rabbits.  They might as well have EAT ME stenciled onto their thick furry backs, as they forage in the dim light of dusk and dawn to escape detection of all creatures’ great and some fairly small that like to snack on one of the ingredients of Hasenpfeffer.  They catch pneumonia fairly easily in damp cold.  Our winters are always damp cold.  This deep freeze of nearly a week can be deadly cruel to them… to us all.

Okay… enough of the real world of nature.  Perhaps we might venture into the not so real world of Yvonne, as the real world of my life has thrown in the towel and moved to the dark side of the moon.  My cousin phoned me to let me know my most favorite aunt in the world (her mother) had died from Covid in a nursing home.  She was a vibrant woman I stayed in touch with my entire life.  I loved her.  I just cried.

My cousin revealed to me that she had her mother sent to the hospital and the hospital sent her back to the nursing home.  She had her mother sent a second time to the hospital, and the hospital for a second time returned her mother to the nursing home.  She died there alone and not taken care of.  To not matter… one wonders about the real meaning of life or if there is any meaning at all.

Today the warmth of the sun in a cloudless sky is creating a world of sleet and snow looking rather sad as it melts a bit here and there on its journey into eventual oblivion.  Fallen snow no longer tantalizes as too many muddy depressions of warming plants, or animal and bird tracks walking over the tops of tracks already there have created a havoc of blemishes across the surface of white.

We ventured out into it to replenish the bird feeder and bird bath, and to clean the snow off of the car so the sun would melt off the sleet.  It was delightful reclaiming my poopy porch railings from the hungry mobs of birds, but it will be a battle reclaiming the cars from the ice encrusted driveway.  The ice bound roof around the deck is giving us a headache wondering how much damage it’s creating as it seems impenetrable to methods of breaking any of it off.

As I look out my living room window onto the lumpy surfaces of old snow, and baring branches as snow loses its grip and falls softly to the ground in clumps, the ice covered roads are still fairly quiet.  I like it that way.  There is such beauty in the silence of an otherwise noisy existence, where even the multitudes of visiting birds seem to be quieter as they search the barren land for substance until warmth returns.

Morning tea and coffee


Sleet with bouts of falling snow



Blue Jay

Out of the heart of life,
lingering on the horizon of what little is left,
it burns dimmer and dimmer,
until vanished into the grey, 
where sky ends and faith begins.

To know all too well,
 these feelings of quiet despair,
when life lets go of that which was created out of her bosom,
and sends it off on wings of eternity itself.

Oh, how it dwells, 
loosely locked, 
in the fading memories,
of age itself.


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Sunday, February 7, 2021

The Wind Blows Cold

She thinks long about the type of person she really was.  She knows it doesn’t matter, and yet, it does.  However she lived her life, it was as it is now…as if the layers of all she was meant to be are still wrapped around her like a rose bud in drought, shriveled and dying. .  She feels alone in a world she passed through so quickly, even her memories betray her.  It really doesn’t matter, though, not now.

She turns off the lights, lays back in her comfy chair with her knees bent and feet angled on the hassock, softly shuts her eyes, and drifts out to sea floating on every note of the melody the piano keys lightly play of the music she's listening to.  Tune after tune, her existence seems merely her essence, moving to and fro as the cold wind nudges her along in her brief escape from her meaning of life.

I have two sisters, one ten years younger, and the other about half way in between.  We seemed to have separate lives growing up, most likely due to our age differences.  Contrasting personalities and nonshared interests detached us further until we might as well have been living on separate planets from each other.   

Adult life eventually put great physical distances between us, although I lived close to my youngest sister for a short period of years after I returned from my time in Panama, Central America.  We all kept in touch sporadically, but we rarely had much in common.

Somewhere in there my youngest sister forged a wedge of iron that killed what closeness there was with me.  She remembers nothing of those days.  I talk with her when she phones, but the rarely less than four hour long calls are exhausting.  I divorce myself from her reach, when she sinks me into depression and I need a break.

It’s been my life with her, for better or for worse.  It just is.  This is somewhat vague as it should be, for although I have not always liked my sister, I have never stopped loving her, as I feel she has never stopped loving me.  The other things can be accepted and forgotten.

Sonya with Dad (2004-2005)

My sister Debi shared with me last week, that Sonya was found collapsed on the floor of where she was living and taken to the hospital.  We had conflicting information from her son and from her daughter as to the cause, but the bottom line was she had cancer that was no longer treatable.  She always self diagnosed and could seldom afford doctors, so Debi and I believe she'd been sick for ages and had attributed it to something else.

Sonya died this morning.  I loved her as best I could.

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