Snow

I walked into the snow or perhaps it was the snow walking into me. We walked into each other I'll say. I was on my way to the shops which is to say I was on my way to get something from the store that they had that I needed, which is what they do. They have, we need, they give, we give. It seems to work for everybody, though I'm not sure how they know what we're going to need. Last time I was there the lady at the counter seemed to know who I was. She said hello Mister Wallace and I smiled, though I was nervous that she knew this name my parents gave me; well I suppose it was my father as he gave it to my mother too. They gave me another one as well - Peter, or perhaps it was Paul. I don't use that one a lot. I did at school, but then it helped to have different names at school - one for the teachers to use and one for the other children. Our names are a very personal thing and I wasn't so sure about how I felt that this lady in the store used mine so readily, that it slipped off her tongue without a lot of care. It could have fallen under the counter or behind the lolly stand, but I've still got it I think so all is well.

So I walked into the snow and wished I still had my coat, the one with the pockets with holes in them. Those pockets were great for keeping my hands warm, i could reach down and get some of the spare heat from my thighs. I worried that without my hands down there to get some of the heat, the heat could get too much. If I wasn't taking it away, then it must still be there. If I can't find my coat I'll have to work something out.

So I walked into the snow and step after step I listened to that squeak that wasn't really a squeak, but wasn't really wasn't either. It's a funny one that one. Maybe it's what they mean by a squelch, but maybe it doesn't have a name at all. Which again makes me nervous. Things need names to be things, to talk about them and know about them and know what to do with them.

I walked through the snow and thought about how my father used to collect words. He would collect them and rearrange them and send them out again, but in new ways. His name would be in the newspaper above the stories, or sometimes at the end of them in a leaning over way, and I used to like to cut his name out, because it was my name too of course. I would cut them out with scissors and line them all up next to each other. I would borrow some glue from mother and I had a piece of paper I would glue them to, each day when he brought the newspaper home. I never missed a day and it grew so I would be very worried if he was late, as I couldn't go to bed until I had cut out his name and afixed it to my paper.

I walked in the snow and tried to remember where it was I was going. I knew it was some place I needed to go and some thing I needed to do, but it's not always easy to remember these things, and old things as well. Often the old things will pop into my head and the new things, that I tried so hard to keep in my thoughts, would be squeezed out. I wondered if it was something to do with the old thing, that something about the new thing had made me remember the old thing.

My father. Was I going to visit my father? He passed away a long time ago, but I do go and visit him at times. I see where he lies beside my mother, and I look at where I, too, will soon be.

I walked through the snow and I reached the cemetery where I buried my parents. My father, long ago, my mother, not so long ago. I kissed their stone, their name. My name. I lay down beside my mother, in my spot. Their son, forever.