Night of a snow day--
If someone called to say they're stopping by,
I'd be horrified.
What would they say
if they saw this house?
Mounds of clothes,
once white with snow,
now soaked--
piled in puddles.
What would they say?
Just the thought makes me want to break free and run.
Surrender.
Concede.
Finally, it's gotten the best of me.
Instead, I take a photograph.
Through the lens--
a chrome filter,
past the mess on the railing and floor,
into the doorway of the playroom
I cleaned yesterday,
an ocean of stuff.
50 feet deep, it seems.
An ocean of stuff.
And, somehow I'm softened.
Maybe it's the filter.
It makes what's thrown me for a loop,
this noose around my neck
loosen up.
All this stuff--
the disarray,
through the lens, has composition.
Like a painter chose to paint those colors there.
Splattered every which way,
absolutely everywhere.
And I see how it can be beautiful.
Those clothes that clothed my children in the snow,
kept them safe and warm so they could play--
there with my husband.
Their father.
Fully alive.
Star flakes on their faces.
Smiling eyes glistening in the reflection of the day.
Those clothes they peeled from their fleece pajamas.
Rosy cheeks,
squeaky clean.
Eager for piping hot cocoa
and soup.
Straws and spoons.
Strewn across the floor.
Hijacking the railing.
And them--
all of them there
through the doorway,
winter,
and they're swimming in an ocean of stuff,
splashing and laughing,
there in my photograph.
'Cause in the end,
all it is
is a snapshot.
It's that image stored deep
in their memories.
One they'll call upon
many winters
from now--
many winters
and messes made.
Colorful composition.
Messes made and straightened up.
Made again.
The nature of things.
Nature--
like seasons,
best when inhaled and embraced.
Exhaled and released.
Best when seen through a lens.
A work of art.
Each one,
a masterpiece.
-Jayme
