A Different Kind of Narrative

Winter. Outside it’s beautiful, a dusting of snow & intense, subtle colors of December sky at twilight. Inside, a much different time for us this year. Thirteen months ago we didn’t know if P would even have an eye. He does. It’s not the color of his beautiful biologically gifted green, but it’s beautiful. He doesn’t see, but he retains the glory of color, shadow & space, tho reorganized in the uniqueness of his condition. There is no end in *sight* yet, but we’ve learned about how one sees what is really there, what doesn’t matter, & what, perhaps, shouldn’t be seen. A few weeks ago a huge wind brought down some large branches from one of our towering firs. I’ve been taking cuttings from the felled limb, bringing them inside, to serve for a bit longer, alive, still pungent. I started thinking about my dad, who was never bewitched by glorious little white lights, no matter the coaxing of our mother, & in fact the Christmas he died my sister & I put up a tree for him outside on the upstairs porch off his room, & we dressed it with colored lights. Tonight I adorned the kitchen mantle with greens from the felled fir, & colored lights, for you, Dad. And now, here our little tree, undecorated with the ornaments I love, the baubles & handmade things the children made, the nostalgic things that connect us back in time to memory & tradition & all that. Last year a tree was out of the question, but one dreadful night returning from Syracuse, filled with fears, prayers, all the things that bind trouble to reality, as I came down our road & took the turn by the creek where one glimpses the back of our house, I saw - behold - the twinkling white lights of a Christmas tree. Sarah & Robert came in, & in addition to taking care of mister Colby, birdie, & BillyBob our funny little goat all this terrible time, they knew we should have a tree. I burst into tears, & when P saw it, he burst into tears as well. So now we have a Christmas tree, beautiful in its simplicity and resonant with memory and gratitude, still awaiting the dressing that we cherish. P put the lights on. He said it wasn’t easy, because he saw multiples. Tomorrow I’ll bring all our memories round. I’ll decorate the tree.

Nothing changes.