We end at the ending
of what was once a beginning.
I used to dream of a winter wedding:
troika in the snow, a new moon,
a fur hat.
We end at the border
between what we know
and could not have known,
the years between bleeding
frozen fluid memory, fading
pages, sepia toned composite,
melting mosaic of trips, talks,
dogs, spit-up, colic and cloth diapers,
sink after sink full of shared dishes.
We are ending
but the ending keeps beginning,
repeating, revealing new facets,
corners of old pictures: skinny-dipping,
oh, how we molded to each other
in that cozy foxhole, our little den.
Now, only the quiet impact
of snowflakes merging with puddles,
reminding me, for some reason,
of the stones we stacked
when my belly was a full moon
shining in broad daylight,
and how that fragile tower
of smooth, heavy stones
must have toppled later,
after we’d made our way,
once again, home.
Image credit: Cathy Howie