Winter into Spring

A week of freezing cold, of buffeting winds, makes our little house shake. The mist blankets the bay, then lifts to reveal churning grey seas by day and piercing stars at night. Bundled, I walk my inland route, barely protected by dunes. I inspect seemingly lifeless twigs, serrated patterns of sand and ice, colored stones laced by brilliant seaweed. A week of cups of tea and toast, of lying on a couch with a dog, chatting with my friend.

On the windiest day, we go to the bay. The dog keeps her head down. Spray and sand are flying. The waves are peaking and crashing on the beach. We hold on to each other. We walk a short way, overtaken by the power of it all.

We allow the future to come at us in tiny doses. Do we want to follow the news? Can we hold on to our internal compasses? Will they spin out of control? Is it even possible to set a course? My friend says, “I may not live to see us regain the changes we fought for. It is humbling.” When the cold afternoon sun lights up the floors, we sweep up glinting sand in a desultory way. No need to have things perfectly clean.

My sister is moving to England. She says, “I must leave before the inauguration.” I try to focus on the deep connection she feels to England, to her friends, to the countryside. She returns to her theme: “Yes, and things are going to be awful here. I wish I were more resilient. I thought growing up in our family, I would be inoculated to authoritarianism, but I am not.”

“I don't think that is how it works.”

She feels guilty and excited that she is leaving; she worries that I am staying. Envy is close at hand.

Am I minimizing how bad it will be? Am I the unseeing optimist, the normalizer? Is she the one who is choosing to leave just in time?

“I know you must go. It's a brave decision.”

The panic and confusion I felt in late 2016 returns—panic that led me to make deep changes in my life—panic that quieted briefly during the hiatus. I wonder what is to come, how will I do my part