Boo's Basket

working on a basket made with pine needles i collected with my aunt boo last year, as she moved toward her death from dementia. we walked together along with her husband, ben, through long-leaf pine woods in florida. she saw me gathering the needles, and she joyfully began gathering them, too, though she didn't understand what i meant them for. at home that evening, toward the end of my visit with them, i invited her to help me take each needle out of the jumble of needles and lay them out straight, so they'd travel safely on the plane without getting broken. she sat beside me at their little kitchen table, and, though the disease had stripped her of her language, much of her reasoning, her memory, and the ability to simply work on most things competently, she understood what i was doing with the needles. we worked together, silently, while ben watched the news, her hands and mine taking turns as we slowly untangled the web of needles and, one by one, laid them in order.

boo passed over october of last year. finally, now, i'm weaving these needles together into our basket.

Thanksgiving

morning train ride to the city south of us. boy toddled up and down our car, smiling at every person on it, receiving smiles and conversation in exchange. at long last, napped in my arms, the rising sun flickering through the trees onto his face, the side of his hand.

so much of the journey was through wild land. quiet streams winding through the woods, bare branches webbing the sky. water lying still, frozen in its place, holding the sun's light on the earth.

we traveled behind the factories, the ugly places: laundromats, self-storage, their dumpsters and heating vents. occasionally, a glimpse of the wealthy - a house on a hill above the tracks, a row of neat victorians a few blocks away.

so few people out, towns nearly vacant, roads empty. one lonely car at the railroad crossing waiting for us to pass. storefronts all closed and quiet. just the rattle of the train on its tracks, the conductor's jarring announcements of stations, the passing trees.

Cranberry Pole Beans

our cranberry pole beans being shelled by my mum during her most recent visit here.

Breath

nursing my son in bed tonight, he twice tilted his sleepy head up to my face, eyes closed, pausing for a moment. his breath - moist, milky, warm - blanketed my mouth, my nose in the dark and quiet of our room.

all of his life, the moments in which i have felt his breath have reminded me of his sacredness, have awoken me out of the rush of my days. creator's breath itself, the air that sustains this little boy, moment by moment. that i can feel it, breathe it in to my own body, is astonishing to me.

Lessons

today's writer's almanac poem:

Lessons
by Pat Schneider

I have learned
that life goes on,
or doesn't.
That days are measured out
in tiny increments
as a woman in a kitchen
measures teaspoons
of cinnamon, vanilla,
or half a cup of sugar
into a bowl.

I have learned
that moments are as precious as nutmeg,
and it has occurred to me
that busy interruptions
are like tiny grain moths,
or mice.
They nibble, pee, and poop,
or make their little worms and webs
until you have to throw out the good stuff
with the bad.

It took two deaths
and coming close myself
for me to learn
that there is not an infinite supply
of good things in the pantry.

Frost

first thorough frost last night. boy and i walked out through the yard in the early morning, he in his fresh clothes and coat and hat, me in my pajamas and boots. picked up a frosted maple leaf for him to hold, crispy and covered in ice crystals, and his hand melted it as we walked. sun just touching the tops of the trees.
passed the pile of soil that he played in, barefoot, two days ago. the ridges where his feet and hands made shallow craters were capped with frost, like a mountain range viewed from above, dark valleys and silver ridges.
three baby mice and counting.
harvested our butternut squash (14) and pumpkin (1!) two days ago.

Mouse

mice have moved in to our kitchen, following the warmth.

set a havahart trap last night and found a little baby one in it this morning. all head and tail and feet. it was watching me, wide-eyed, when i opened the cabinet door to check the trap.

brought it down the road, boy and i, and i sat with the trap door open for a few minutes as it got its bearings, as it met the outdoors, plants, earth. then in one large, clumsy hop, it left the trap, and scurried under the virginia creeper vines. i put a little pile of almonds on the ground near where it hid.

now i'm at home, eating my oatmeal, and a little creature, new to the world, is miles from its mother and her milk and their home.