Bad Forecasts
Buds have appeared on the dogwood tree out back, and even though we thought the time for snow had passed, thick clumps like tufts of dandelion seeds fall heavy and wet. In an hour the yard is graced in a soft white I know won’t last. The spring is so eager, pushing us to begin again. I’m still clinging to fleece blankets roasted chestnuts the numb tingle of mulled wine. My huskies scratch at the back door for a romp, but I don’t want to ruin it-this perfect coating on what is dirty and raw. From a window, I watch the snow fall. Some say there is beauty in suffering, but there’s not: a mother’s swollen septic body is ugly in fluorescent lighting attempted resuscitation requires tubes private areas exposed so much fluid splashed all over the tile floor. The dogs whine pace incredible circles. But the next morning, the snow is already melting, patches of earth surfaced. Christine Taylor
14