The Sight of a Single Cardinal

SnowflakeMy mother believes— truly— that each December snow is a gift from her dead father, who stomps on the glass-bottomed floor of heaven, the roof of earth, to send her his frozen, flaky Christmas card. Geometrics. It is difficult to yank a metaphor from the earth’s finite range for snowflakes, which look only like themselves, and are not, as we are, a whole cut from halves, themselves wholes:

Having never had a single moment of faith in anything but myself, and having lost even that in the same innumerable, unique ways the sky makes snowflakes, I usually rolled my eyes at my mother’s loony claims, and was surprised when, pregnant, I discovered a Trinity in my unborn, kicking son, who was both his father and myself and entirely himself at once— three in one and one in three, a kind of endless rubber-banding logic not unlike the way that cells divide, divide, divide, except that they do not return to form, but carry on dividing until death, at which point the cells of your cells might do a miraculous thing, and picture your dead feet dancing on top of the sky, making it snow, loosing the eminent, imminent crystals from their firm place in the firmament like so many fixed and falling stars.


About evanduyne

I'm assistant professor of writing at Stockton University, where I'm also affiliated faculty in the Women's, Gender, and Sexuality Studies program. I work on Sylvia Plath, contingent faculty, and creative writing around trauma and domestic violence.
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