A January of clear, cold days. Snow frozen
along the margins of streets and driveways.
Evening. Dinner over. Homework spread across the table.
Our daughter draws a map of Canada.
"No one lives there," my husband says, pointing
to its farthest reaches. "It's too cold."
"I like the cold," our daughter says. "I'll live there."
She shakes her head of dark curls. She laughs.
She has always been a fearless child.
I'd like to know how to make myself more like her,
to imagine going places no one else imagines
worth going to. But I wander from the table
and sit down in my big green chair
where it's warm and cozy. This is what I love to do.
I open my book and fall in.
along the margins of streets and driveways.
Evening. Dinner over. Homework spread across the table.
Our daughter draws a map of Canada.
"No one lives there," my husband says, pointing
to its farthest reaches. "It's too cold."
"I like the cold," our daughter says. "I'll live there."
She shakes her head of dark curls. She laughs.
She has always been a fearless child.
I'd like to know how to make myself more like her,
to imagine going places no one else imagines
worth going to. But I wander from the table
and sit down in my big green chair
where it's warm and cozy. This is what I love to do.
I open my book and fall in.
Nothing better than your favorite chair by a cozy fire (I added that) and a good book but in Alaska you could do that even more, if you lived in, say Fairbanks, it get too cold to even go out. So you'll enjoy visiting Emma there.
ReplyDeleteNow there's an idea -- live in a cold place, with a daughter who builds fires. And write!
ReplyDelete