Into White

Me & bunny


March might have gone out like a lamb, but April has lumbered in like a stunned polar bear—frigid temps, high winds, and snow. More than an aberrant dusting, this nonsense is into its second forty-eight hours, well past April Fool’s Day. It’s still sifting out of a pewter bowl of a sky.

Yesterday I woke up to bright sunshine and a pristine fluffy blanket coating forsythia and grape hyacinths, magnolias and all the sweet emerging buds in their festive greenery. Out of the blue, I remembered a white bunny fur jacket I wore at Easter when I was a little girl—so pretty and soft over my crisp, flowered pastel dress. Mom sewed matching outfits for me and my sister (only mine was blue, Dianne’s pink). My skirt billowed beneath the cropped jacket, which was probably beyond our budget. I snuggled into it, feeling like a princess. No connection was made in my mind to any possible suffering involving the same kind of adorable pets I once had, living up on Beacon Hill Road, when my father was still alive. Now I wonder if this was some kind of trade-off. My newly widowed mother could no longer handle the bunnies, peeps, and ducklings, always appearing at Easter time, then played with and raised in pens in our large back yard.

This morning I worried about the translucent spider I had inadvertently whisked out of a dusty corner of my garage, that freaky, balmy day before the cold front muscled in. I had injured a few of his gossamer legs. It took several attempts to scoop him up onto a dried leaf and deposit him in the adjacent strawberry patch which was starting to green up. (I often wonder about my random acts of saving insects—do I instead hasten their demise?)

Last Thursday night I got a phone call. My friend of fifty years, Darla, had died of a massive heart attack. I include that word “massive” because it not only sobers me—I am in that age bracket for such endings—but also brings a thread of hope that massive means instantaneous. That she did not suffer. She had entered the hospital with back pain, and that did not bode well. A year previous, a similar complaint had resulted in the discovery of cancer in her bones, and then her breast. The most recent check-up revealed that the remission (I thought she was in while visiting her last summer) had run its course. But what really was destroying Darla was the never-ending drip of a sadness from the sudden death of her husband nearly two decades ago. I tried with every conversation to tip the topic to looking forward in her life. But it was futile. She only wanted to look backwards, when she had felt most alive. And the cancer cells were now in her liver. Now. Then. Darla is gone, at least on this plane.

But winter, apparently, is still here. I feel trapped in the cold, with still-warm memories of my friend offering comfort, at a cost. Sort of like that white bunny fur jacket.

April 2016

copyright Sharon Watts

photo from personal archive




Sharing my art and writing in a loosely gathered way that allows for meandering and taking the scenic route, I try to be mindful, meaningful, but still, at times, playful.
This entry was posted in aha! (in the) moment, looking back, overview and tagged , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

7 Responses to Into White

  1. Wilma Jane Weichselbaum says:

    I like your writing style. Yes, I do the same with insects like spiders and even flies that I try to wave out the screen door so they won’t die on one of the window sills or buzz around ’til I want to whack them. I do dust away spider webs from time-to-time, however. It’s the feeling that comes from having entered Buddhist thought and practices. Every creature has its purpose and right to live. I like the profundity of your phrase, “I am in that age bracket for such endings-.” Remember how we ‘went to class’ regularly, Karate class that is? Life seemed continuous then. There was always the next event or gossip around Kaicho and his machinations, etc. Maybe you didn’t get into it like I did or various others I shall not name. How did we get here? Are we lucky to still be truckin’ along? Have our identities changed, or is it that they’re re-shaped and so seem unidentifiable? We realize that it’s not so easy to talk about our next project, adventure or lover without the inescapable knowledge of the ephemeral nature of existence. With all the New Age stuff around, and NDE experiences revealed, maybe we’ll catch up up there somewhere before we fly headlong into the next vehicle for incarnation. Every spider saved means another bit of good karma. Sorry for your friend’s passing. I do sometimes look upon Death as the next adventure, but not without fear and uncertainty. Life these days is particularly filled with both. I hope one day the world no longer needs politics. How about just Peace. Thanks for your entry.

  2. Another beautiful piece about Darla and life itself. From someone not to far away, also feeling the isolation of this cruel extended blanket of winter.

  3. Meredith Stone says:

    Sad, poignant…..touching.

    Sent from my iPhone


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