The kitchen this morning is a mess; the
dirty dishes are not even stacked up beside the sink but lie instead where each
person sat during the day: the table has disappeared beneath an assortment of
half opened letters, partly read books and maybe-I’ll-look-at-this-one-day
papers; the window sill is inaccessible.
But for real detritus you need to visit my
car.
You could grow something in the dirt and
disorder.
In fact something does.
And I know, somewhere in the back, beneath
the plastic bags and wires, the bread crumbs and the pizza boxes, the torn
newspaper and mouldy sandwiches I will find the snow chains rusting from last
winter and waiting to be returned to their box.
Which is probably somewhere under the front
seat.
I think of this as I lie in bed.
As I also think of this: can you tell,
without drawing the curtain, whether it snowed during the night and that you
will wake to a world transformed?
They said that it would.
The temperatures have dropped.
And, although it is early, the sounds
outside seem softly absent.
A solemn stillness lies.
I might need those chains.
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