(i)
At first, longing is weightless and
carefree. The way snowflakes fall
without as much as a murmur before
they succumb to fate's gravity. The
way Chopin strings night's feathers
into whispering nocturnes. Afterwards
longing grows into a pile of off-colour mess.
(ii)
In a folk tale, an old childless Baltic
couple fashions a snow girl out of that
pile. Their longing breathes life into
her and the blue girl, sparkling and pale
becomes the crystal pride of the little
village. In the winter of their breaths
the couple gains a flesh-n-blood progeny.
When spring comes, the girl's noiseless
tongue shrinks and dries up before she
dissolves into the ground she rose from.
(iii)
On our front yard, we gather clumps of
snow and make a sphere. Two red Christmas
balls give it eyes, an orange plastic cone
becomes its nose. An Oh Canada hat on the
head completes the snowman's body. We
send his photo to our niece who lives in
a snow-less land far away. Three springs
later, she's a teenager. The "cute
snowman" melts from her memory.
(iv)
We check the weight and wait of our longing.
Immeasurable.
Eternal.
This is so moving Bhaswati. I like especially the connections over time space. I was wondering if the line about progenitive windfall could be written to say that when the couple had a child of warm flesh and blood - or some such to contrast the snow girl's cold but sparkling life that melts and disappears in spring.
ReplyDeleteAnannya, thank you so much for the feedback! I wasn't quite sure of some of the word choices. I will make that change.
DeleteYears ago, when I first moved to Chicago, I witnessed my snowfall on December 4th, while nursing a still fresh heartbreak. The weight of the snow made me feel like I need to wait, too. Many years and a whole new relationship later, your wordplay took me right where the snow had left me.
ReplyDeleteThanks for this reflective comment, Raii. It's funny how the cyclical patterns of nature can mirror the cycles in our own lives.
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