The Cowboy Returns in anticlimatic

Something very precious washed over me the other day. A sentiment. A realization of a kind. A feeling. Years now of loss and dwelling on loss. A feeling of being locked out of a world I used to know and a world that made sense. It was a memory of my grandfather, I think. In the snow, in that hat, smile on his face, making gentle order of his surroundings. It galvanized something in my mind. The realization that the things that had happened, had really happened- that as strange as things and places seem now, absent the reflections of fellow inhabitants passed, they are no more or less real than the overlapping places in my memory destined for a similar fate, and so long as something lives in my character and in the sound of my voice, it lives indeed.

We took our pumpkins down to the river and tossed them over the bridge. The snow was absolutely beautiful. First snowfall of the season. We made our way down to the mouth of the river from the bridge to see how far our pumpkins made it, and the smell of virgin winter filled my head. One pumpkin we found caught on a branch, the other we did not find.

I am already thirsting for the melting waters of spring and all that vibrant greenery, but I am equally prepared for and anticipating a long white winter. The house is not quite ready for Christmas this year, but I can feel the warmth of it on the distant horizon. I told my brother I planned on hosting Christmas for the family in the years to come. That my house had a christmas vibe. He said “Yeah, you have Ralphie’s house” (from a christmas story), and it’s true. I do have ralphie’s house. Not sure why I didn’t make that particular connection to my ” christmassy vibe” home.

A tall glass of ice cold water sounds divine.