advent journal: snowed in
The first time you
came to Boston
it was so cold;
the wind bit us
at the bus stop.
You pulled me
close and asked, “Am
I still wearing pants?”
then you laughed.
When you first
came to Durham —
our first Christmas
in our new home —
we were snowed in.
You looked out and said,
“I’ve never had
a white Christmas”
and you smiled.
Tomorrow will be
in the sixties when
we pick Mom up
at the airport:
no snow; no you.
We’ll smile and say,
“Now let me tell
you something . . .”
and miss you.
As our house fills
up with empty
chairs, I don’t
know how to
prepare for absence.
I am snowed in
by sorrow, grateful
for those who keep
digging me out.
Peace,
Milton
