The Deep Snow

by Mel Waldman

In the Season of Clarity, you sit beneath a sprawling sun and speak to me. You know who I am. Of course, you do. I am your only son. Rocking back and forth in the old wooden rocking chair, you reveal how much you loved Mother. You’re a child once more, I imagine, but you remember Yesterday. And you remember me, Father. You remember me too.

But in the Season of Confusion, you sit on the patio in our antediluvian home and struggle to recall my name. For a few seconds, you recognize my face. It has an eerie familiarity. Yet recognition fades and you can’t figure out who this stranger is.

“I’m your son, Father,” I proudly announce. And suddenly, you become agitated and rant and rave and launch a fusillade of tirades at me. I can’t tolerate your malice or the insidious meaning of your memory loss. The sky is dark now and it’s starting to rain. I walk away.

I know a brutal snowstorm is approaching. It will be a full-fledged blizzard. The Season of Oblivion is inevitable. And soon, you will be buried in the deep snow. You won’t know me, won’t even recognize my face. When the blizzard arrives, you will no longer exist. It will obliterate your identity and Yesterday and Tomorrow, and father and son...

But before it comes, we will meet again briefly in the Season of Clarity and I will confess, yes many times will I reveal: “I love you, Father! Grasp my love, old man, and keep it hidden in your tattered soul. And when the snow starts falling, you will still taste my bittersweet words.”

Now, I wait for the next season to arrive. If you die two deaths, so will I. And when you breathe your last breath, I will gasp for air too, for you are my father and I am your son. I will remember, even after you are buried in the deep snow, I will remember...