Winter is clinging to central Maine, and I don’t really mind. I relish the chill and the fire in the woodstove. I relish its hopeful fantasy of suspending time.
I know, I know. Time will never stand still. There are moments in life when you wish it could, though. Like that time we found out our daughter had multiple sclerosis, but we hadn’t told her yet. Or when my creaky, 14-year-old sheprador who can barely get off the floor brings me a stick, ears up, ready to play on snowy March day.
Or like now. The virus has wreaked so much devastation, but it promises to get far worse, and it has barely touched my local community so far. Can’t I just stay here, where winter clings, where my old dog friends are okay, where all my family is still fine, where the virus WILL come in full force, but hasn’t yet? Can’t time just stop now and let me stay here, concerned but suspended, safe in this tenuous present?
My 60th year in 60,000 words
Day 217: 170 words, TOTAL = 35,661; 24,339 remaining
Robin Clifford Wood is an award-winning author, poet, and writing teacher. She lives in central Maine with her husband, loves to be outdoors, and enjoys ever-expanding horizons through her children, grandchildren, and granddogs.