Marie

This will be Marie’s last winter. Her face is crooked. The wind changed and it got stuck that way. Her hands are like tiny bones in a bag, dwarfed as she puts both of hers into one of mine. Her voice comes out of her throat as though it were being dragged over sand-paper. She’s withered since the summer. More leaves have fallen. Her trunk is overcome by its own slight weight. Her limbs are more bent. She used to use her legs. Now she use a nurse and a chair with wheels. She’s all knuckles and creases now. The sun left town today, and I don’t think she’ll be here when he gets back. I won’t see the sun for six months. Marie may see it in weeks. Marie will find summer before I do.

19

I’ve gone around the sun nineteen times. I’ve pushed over trees and played with ants. I’ve painted walls and faces and floors. I’ve seen a man die. I’ve read my bible with moderate to poor consistency. I’ve seen my father get white bristles in his beard. I’ve seen my brother cry. I’ve gotten bigger than most. I’ve been tipsy. I’ve been really angry. I’ve smelt wild sage on a mountain in Delphi. I’ve seen two sisters baptized and a brother married. I’ve picked up big things and have been knocked over by very small things. I cried in church this week. I went West, young man. I’ve chipped a tooth, broken a bone, busted a knuckle, blacked an eye. I’ve loved and been loved. These last nineteen years were good, are good, will always be good. They cling to me like smoke in a jacket. The best part is I get more. More years to hide in my pockets and under my hat. Years that will be filled with babies, and beer, and new love and old love. I’m already wet with life and I’ve only had so little. It’s been a good year. Time for another round.