The Sense of an Ending
Going to put the bins out two hours after dark, I grab the nearest scarf to warm my neck. I made it for my mother, imitating autumn leaves. I love the way the aliveness of them shrinks inside leaving the unnecessary casing empty and dry. My mother has also condensed inside, her liveliness shrunk to precious glimpses. Soon her wonderfully wrinkled case will fall from the family tree, as leaves all must. People talk about winter as the time when everything dies back. But I went into the garden this morning, and with the soft heaviness of water in the air I was drawn to the camellia bush. The white petal balls shone like Christmas lights in the early morning. Under my shoes the grass-green grass seeped dew into my footprints. I love camellia flowers for the damp tissue paper texture of their petals. There are even the transparent lines where they have folded, as if they really are made of tissue paper. They are so delicate it’s a miracle they don’t tear. ...