Monday, March 19, 2012


The sun skims across the tops of our trees and paints bright golden squares on our living room floor that slant from left to right and then right to left as the sun arcs through its path in the sky. Its warmth floods the house, swirls in to every corner.

By the window, I settle into my bean bag chair, the one I’ve had for about 15 years whose black vinyl skin has been pierced and slashed by little sharp claws and stitched up many times to stop floods of tiny white Styrofoam balls that pour from open wounds.

The cool smell of receding snow drifts in through a window open just a crack along with the lazy drip of melt water from the roof and the chortle of songbirds amidst the utter silence of the forest.

There are a million things I should be doing, but the beanbag chair feels softer in the sun and I sink in a little deeper as Bear stretches out on the couch, her eyes closed but for a sliver, her nose whistling softly. Chestnut sprawls beside her, a deep sigh escaping through his nose as he melts further into the couch, if that’s even possible.

Only Cleo is not relaxed, her pretty green eyes, shimmering like a couple of jewels, bulge from her face as she stares at the ceiling, mesmerized by every tiny reflection, even the flit of light reflected off the surface of my tea as it swishes about in my mug. She has not taken her eyes off the ceiling for weeks, not since the sun started showing up stronger and more regularly in clear skies.

Spring arrived early, after winter barely got going. Already there are flies and moths and other buzzing creatures that should still be in some kind of stasis somewhere. Great patches of leaf-strewn ground are emerging in the woods where just yesterday were fields of white.

In the lengthening evenings Murdoch and I explore the changing forest, try to remember the well-defined paths we made that are now melting into their surroundings. The remaining snow, the consistency of a slushie, gives way easily underfoot. It crunches and slops as we weave through the woods and watch the sun sink behind the bare-branched trees, a burning ball of gold in a peach coloured sky.

But in the early afternoon, the air smells like sunshine and our house inhales every last drop of it. The trees stand completely still as if they are sleeping and my eyes refuse to stay open. My list of a million things floats to the back of my mind, I watch it go until it is muffled by the warmth and the sun and I think “just a few minutes”, as Bear’s breathing deepens and Cleo finally closes her eyes.

1 comment:

  1. Loved this article! Just as you sink deeper into the warm embrace of the beanbag, I, too, sink deeper into the warm beauty of your prose, as your words "flood", like sunlight, into my cold mind. Your descriptive prose is wonderfully magical: clear domestic images, tranquil mood throughout. An engaging piece of prose - my anxious self slips away into contemplative silence. Again, you surprise me with the depth of your sight and the power of your language. It's time to get your autograph.