There is a sense of wavering in me, a longing for spring, a desire for stream of consciousness I cannot bring myself to bear. An unevenness in footing. A voice crying out in the dark. A thick cloud of words strumming through my head with no true beat.
This is grief, I argue. This is ridiculous, I argue back.
I don’t know what to feel. I am overwhelmed, at times, by the fracturing of my self. I feel fragile, a sheet of glass cracked and held together by a whim. I am never fully complete anymore and I try, I try to remember not to call her. I try to remember that my mother is no longer to be called.
And winter, Ah, Winter, how I am so sick of thee. I want, like Wordsworth, my daffodils and sunshine. But instead I am Coleridge, with caves of ice all around me.
I am ready for newness. For spring break. For spring to come and refresh the world again. I long, desperately, for the sun to break through these clouds and sprout flowers once more.
Or, as Percy Shelley said,
If Winter comes,
Can Spring be far behind?