the sun in boston shines sideways. casts shadows on everything, people's homes, the winter ready land, old brick and fields of grass.

i nap in its warmth with my sister in law and the two babies. the house is amazingly quiet, and i sleep hard with the dog at my feet.

the land seems different to me. more road weary, accustomed to cloudy days and long dark nights. a land of the people who work hard and long, who dwell after sunset in upstairs windows with lamps on softly and an itchy wool sweater... afghans over tired tv watching legs. of winters and oil in the furnace. of grey and navy coats, mittens with pills from so much use. and raking leaves, shoveling snow. it is the land that transitions with the seasons, year after year, and somewhere i sense a sad blanket in the coming cold. it is not the sadness that pierces, but is present underneath the soil, in the roots of tall trees, giving way slightly when children pass their feet on its dampness.


the house smells of my carrotcake that my mother just made for me. spicy and of nutmeg. she exclaimed a minute ago and i came down two flights of stairs to laugh with her at a pile of sweetness half unbaked and now unfortunate and ruined. she tried to imagine a resurrection, and i, remembering so many attempts at trying to bring disaster back to life (cranberry sauce that didn't gel, gravy with too much milk) encourage her to let disaster be. she looks sad through the laughter and says... "but it still tastes good".


i will walk now down a street that still feels to be cobblestone. i will sense the sadness of this land. i will pass under a grey and white sky and drink in the beauty of what is for today. i will feel what i carry and love it the best i can. and when the glory comes back, and even when it is silent, i will rejoice with thanksgiving.