For my son Gio.
Shortly before my grandma died
she sat up, totally alert for a moment and said
“oh the lemon meringue pies, they were so good!”
She was a great pie maker.
And the lemon meringue was so good.
Sweet yellow that melted on your tongue
They were the last words my mother heard from her lips.
And now I see, I remember again,
that if I imagine
what I would say on my deathbed, it would be
"the nights shoveling snow with you, Gio, Weren't they wonderful?!"
The snow softly falling to the ground around us. undoing our work
Your joy in moving your body, in working, so capable, so alive that we would shovel all the neighbors walks too, the street around all the cars, down to the bus stop.
The dark of the sky lightened to pink by the city lights.
I can smell, taste now the snow melting on our wet winter cloths, warmth of our bodies. The snow itself. The air
Maybe cold toes or fingers,
Then maybe so hot from working we took off our hats and unbuttoned our coats
felt the cold on our ears, air flowing through our shirts and sweaters to our chests
my heart so full of the rightness.
Now I know
that sometimes once you do something with someone
you can never do it without them again
I can not shovel snow and not feel that you too are there
in me
moving with me.
Enjoying the wonder
the stuff of life
and being alive
in it.
