Green Wind

Green wind. That's what my mother calls it. It's that sweet sorrow that slips through winter by the time everyone is paralyzed and hopeless. It makes heads lift from the sleep of despair, helps the deer find their feet, blows silently through the eaves of houses and into the dreams of children. Green wind makes you weep because it reminds you of what you do not have, what will not come for a very long time. Every year my mother calls it something different. A curse. A blessing. Sorrow. Joy. Remembrance.

We like to sit at the kitchen table even though the chairs are hard and their backs pinch your hair where the slats meet the frame. I work on my homework, she strings together beads in dark gray and silver and green. Our living room is bright and cozy with an overstuffed chair, an antique pie table, and a fireplace. But we stay at the kitchen table until it gets dark; until it is time to get up and fix supper--which we eat at the table, never in front of the television. We play music while we cook, we turn on all the lights in the house, even in the cold back bedrooms and long empty halls.