Letter to Anne from Kit­si­lano

Prairie Fire - - ALISON BRAID -

Last night I dreamt about your fam­ily, like I some­times do

when I’m feel­ing par­tic­u­larly far away from ev­ery­thing.

Days go by that I don’t speak a word and yet it’s fine,

some­how. I swim length af­ter length at the pool,

where un­der­wa­ter ev­ery­thing is qui­eter still.

I’ve taken to writ­ing more let­ters lately.

In part, I think, to re­mind my­self that I’m here.

The sun is out and ev­ery­one in the city with it, happy

for as long as this lasts. Black-capped chick­adees sing

out­side my win­dow like they do at home, that hey

sweetie song like a boomerang. They re­mind me of you

sneez­ing in the or­chard grass, rub­bing your nose so hard

I had to look away. Anne, did you know the moon was full

this Fe­bru­ary? A rar­ity. Vis­i­ble at mid­day like a pin­ball, flick­er­ing.

It’s the first leap year since your grand­mother’s death.

How fit­ting, some­one said, that she should leave you only

one day ev­ery four years to grieve. How full she was, too.

The odd bird dis­rupts my thoughts, think­ing my win­dow

the sky. It’s rain­ing again. Your brother said once

how he likes the weather in San Fran­cisco, its pre­dictabil­ity.

Here, the win­ter seems shorter than ever. The tulips

will soon be out, drunken, heavy-headed. Cats will nee­dle

through the back­yards to wail and the mail­men

will pull on their white shorts. Out east, you will

stop wear­ing mit­tens. We both know they won’t

all be good days, and some­how, that too is okay.

Newspapers in English

Newspapers from Canada

© PressReader. All rights reserved.