A Still Life…A Life Still

All week long I thought her birthday was tomorrow  —  Sunday. I was caught off guard this morning when I saw the newspaper’s date: February 4. My mother would have been 77, such a sleek and elegant numeral.

Her shadow was cast long and lean over the day. It fell against bright February sunshine this morning, so warm it felt like May. It followed me as I walked my dog down to the Pitt Street Bridge, where we stood and watched silver shards of mid-morning light ignite the outgoing tide. It was there as I watched a small crowd of eight mergansers, the boys in their dapper headwear, moseying up the creek as a white heron shepherded them along. There’s something about shorebirds that reminds me of her —  their patience, their sharp determination, their fine-featheredness, their solitude.

This may have been the week of Groundhog Day, but it was I who saw the shadow, the silhouette. Everywhere. And found comfort in it…a sense that the grayness of wintery grief is lifting. That spring might blossom, might open its wings, lift its beak, and carry on.

~ by Stephanie on 02/05/2012.

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