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,
O, Wind,
If Winter comes,
Can Spring be far behind?
The Postmodern Bluestocking 