the green of fresh twigs

Sitting in a café on a street in a big city in Canada. Snow and ice, make you feel warmer than you really are, sitting at this window. A bad cup of coffee. A man behind you, below you, in a mauve wheelchair. Hospital issue. Or perhaps he just can’t afford one of the fancy ones, the athletic looking ones, if such a term can be used for such a thing. There is a dark energy around this young man. 24. My guess is that he has recently been told some horrible news of his future, his fate. That he is now confined to this goddamn thing for the rest of it. However long or short it will be. His hands shake, and his friends are nervous. I can feel it. None of them know what to do. You sip your coffee and read your book. “Winter,” by Rick Bass. You feel a bit nauseous watching this man pull his shaky hands to his mouth. You should feel more grateful for everything. All of it.

K and I walk out into the cold air. Our feet slip on the pavement. We walk gingerly, aware that we can. Trying to enjoy the slipping, the ice. Sometimes I wonder why I ever complain about anything. And this morning, as I try to re-light last night’s fire, I grow frustrated that the wood won’t catch. The kindling gone, I try to light the green of fresh twigs. How we all live in ourselves.

Posted by jeff pitcher at January 7, 2005 10:25 AM

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