Four to Six Inches, Reading, Massachusetts, by Kasandra Larsen

Posted on October 9, 2019

She wants me to see the snow on the trees,

the branches specifically

before it blows to the ground or melts, leaving

spider arms to wave and dangle

their remaining treasures,

crisped to endless trembles. I’ve seen snow

of course, before. Trees

but not these trees, not adorned

with these satin gloves,

this hint of sparkle, not these limbs

reaching, first toward sun, then stars, next

a night with no moon.

I’ve never seen winter at this age in

this town, until right now

and now, and now

with her still in it, nodding

as I fill in the white space of the

disability questionnaire

with words for fear,

categories of being afraid, lists of activities

her illness/injury/sickness now makes difficult,

her teacup jittering, held by twisted fingers, twigs

that shake in the stillness

of her kitchen as she nods, yes

pain here and here and also here, yes, limited

mobility as a slab of snow slides

from the roof, explodes on the driveway, punctuates

the process of our growing

old, leaving diamonds to crunch

beneath aching feet. We go out to shock our lungs

into breathing, slap

our own cheeks, every day closer to spring

whether or not we’re here

to make a list of what we miss

about it, whether or not

we’re there to see the branch bud

in response to being touched back by the sun, trusting

the wait would pay. Buried

beneath her skin is a girl

with a red coaster sled, unafraid to slide

down the steepest hill

in the cemetery, steer between the headstones.