Bunching up in the armpits and waist

Time and distance push you ahead and apart. We stand in a circle holding varisized tumblers, waiting for someone else to say something after the first gulp. Children are larger, and you're less prepared for the ice and snow each time, each year owning fewer and fewer of the things which made the season bearable. Bundle up in inadequate Southern California coats, one on top of the other, bunching up in the armpits and waist.





The sidewalks are roughened, salted, and won't let you easily slide across them. The air is thick from the atmosphere above it pushing it down, bowling it into a mass, refusing to allow it to waft away. The poison gathers up, bunches itself, falls to the ground with the snow and re amasses. Conversations are awkward and littered with self corrections--cuss words unsaid, recollections of what particular detail is appropriate or not--and suddenly an entire year was spent doing nothing worth mentioning.



I've added some old pieces to my shop.