Jamie sits and cries. Her ashtray is Stonehenge.
My little man, now grown, asks why I am so melancholy.
I feel bad for Jamie. It’s all I can offer. A ripple sweeps through the white wind, and a sheet of ice slides from the neighbor’s slate roof next door, its fate water descending. Edna passed years ago but the shingles endure.
It’s warming, my Mother submits, hands fidgeting with her faded apron, once laughing daffodils.
Spring has sprung, my Father replies. He appreciates the weather in these parts, the rhythms, and the rhymes of rain, snow, and sun. The seasons he bequeathed to me are my river to swim.
I will be cheerful when we are all together again, I propose. My statement may also sound like a question.
But that will be in death, answers a boy no longer innocent and now wise, though still tender.
Like my old man and your old man, yes, I affirm. The autumn in my hair is red turning gray.
Jamie, her tears drying, retires for the evening.
'Til tomorrow.