He brings his hammer, he brings his nail.

Everyone's always talking about the weather. And if there's one thing that depresses me it's such talk. Have we nothing deeper to speak of? Are we that afraid of sharing our actual feelings about the day, about our current state of mind, that we concern so much of our human interaction with calculable musings of the dropping temperature, possible precipitation, and unseasonable flurries. That with each morning we greet - "weather" is our go-to topic of choice... almost programmed to sound from our flapping jaw at 9:07am. Stranger-friendly and fire-safe.

Yes, it is cold this time of year. I am fully aware, I was just outside. I know it's cold. Can't you see the blood running from the break in the pink of my lip? The black pond forming at the corner of my eyes. I'm black and red and cold all over. Can't you see it? My cheeks are not a natural shade of rose.

He brings her flowers now.

Twenty-five Augusts past, and he brings cut stems, tied in a bunch with string.
Set on six-feet of frozen mulch.
Hard as nails, spading in the vase.
What a sight. Perfect white on bricks of dirt. Snow bleeding over wheat-colored blades of grass... survivors from the fall.

Ordinarily, worms and insects say disgust - but the thought of a winter bug, winter life scurrying down above her is actually quite comforting. An unlikely comfort. But I grasp onto it.

He brings her flowers now.
Now that's it's cold and buried deep and down and underground.
This isn't a plea for lovers to seize the day, to throw rose petals at every step.
Nor should you rethink any mention of the chill out the door, or the frost on the windowsill.

See he brings her flowers now,
but he planted them with her then.

And the cold will always be cold. And when it's cold we will always say it's cold.
We'll think it to ourselves, and we'll say it to each other. And it will help make things comfortable.
And although it will make our morning interaction easy - warming us into the swing of the routine of our days - know that I will feel a slight discomfort. But only for a moment. A flash of every other memory in a blink of an eye.
Cause I will think of those memories where it is always cold. Where seeds cannot be planted, where flowers cannot sprout up and out, and see the sun.
Where there are no bugs in winter. But, oh how I hope there are.


xo
el oh el eh
Moment of the day - While assembling Ikea furniture, morning shots with Pa.