Mom died last November. I think about her often. The initial loss gives way to glacial loss. Time creates daily moments of remembrances; sometimes hunks of memory fall off into the oceanic abyss never to be conjured again. The mass moves, deep architecture like ballast...
Today, the snow triggers ancient memories; plastic bags over socks to keep moisture out, the Long Island Blizzard of 1978 and frostbite on the sledding hill behind the Port Washington Post Office. The radiator in my kitchen was where boots, wool gloves, hats, scarves, snow pants and jackets thawed and dried. I distinctly remember picking the pilly snow out of my wool gloves. Mom would be cooking something warm and bubbly on the stove.
I walk with Ellie on 14th Ave NW. A worker shovels snow off the roof of Ballard Market. Couples venture out to experience the rare event of snow in Seattle. Dogs jump euphorically through powdery drifts in Gemenskap Park.
Six inches of snow in Seattle is a big deal; supermarket shelves empty out as if a Zombie Apocalypse is imminent. The city does not budget a lot for snow management because it rarely snows on a scale that requires management. When Seattle gets a snowstorm the city shuts down. Bars stay opened.
The death of a parent sometimes marks a new chapter in one’s life. For me, it has been a chance to reflect. I am not depressed, but compressed, caring for an aging parent and three children. My eldest is a hormonal tween on the cusp of finding friends more important than parents. He is beginning to explore his identity, while I begin to avoid Ericksonian stagnation. I know he wants me to be a supportive father, but it has to be different than just a year ago. I have been resistant to adjust. I’ve been resistant to many things lately.