Driving home from the Poconos I watched the world go by. John attended to the road so I could observe the scenery. There were bouquets of icicles suctioned to the rock walls, pointy and shimmering in the light. A few dribbles managed to soak up enough sun to melt, and raced past like those annoying people who cut ahead in line. We traveled
through the Delaware Watergap and saw houses perched flush with the banks. Some were on stilts. Just in case.
There were entire fields of white, snow that refused to budge even half way through March. Fallen trees and broken branches told the story of stormy nights and winds that slammed through more than once. I saw houses, cars and buildings that were abandoned or rusty. They had a forgotten look, as if even they could not remember when they had buzzed with
life.
There were at least eight doors with evergreen wreaths, as if in rebellion to the enduring winter. No White Witch could forbid their Christmas.
Gradually the vanilla expanses disappeared and snow became a garnish, like parsley on a plate of stuffed mushrooms. Instead the open fields were somewhere between yellow and brown, the kind of hair color women try to hide with dye. If I come back in a month they will probably be green. Life
is like that.
This winter took a toll on many lives. Just today a friend let me know that his father is getting divorced. Another neighbor's plans were hijacked last week when her child was diagnosed with cancer. Yet another person I care about is dealing with the death of her brother in law.
Hardship comes like a blast of arctic air, when the winds of what you expected take a spike. Yet mixed in with the recollections of numb
fingers and inflated heating bills, there are warm memories too. People who supported each other through the uncertainty of lost power, or buried driveways. Friends who arrived after a new baby or surgery with hot food.
Maybe if they come back to check in in a month, the new parents and the grieving sister in law will be feeling less overwhelmed.
Life is like that.
