Last weekend, the first snowfall. We wake to small styrofoam beads glistening in the yard, the patio, the trees.
It’s Christmas! says Divy.
It’s snow! says Markus.
Soon, they’ll both be right.
December paraded in quicker than we’d anticipated, its usual fanfare clouded by the daily swirl of appointments, deadlines, covid. Each of us on separate routes: Martin finishing renovations on a vault, Divy practicing Taekwondo maneuvers. Me, another semester ending in December. Markus trying his darndest to pronounce the word ‘schon.’
There’s much to throw confetti over, now that I see it all in written down.
Still, we’re carving out a quieter rhythm for the end of December. Time to sit on the chairlift and catch a bit of snow, we think.
Last month, I’m riding to Vernal – a trio of males chattering on about multiverse. Markus tells me of string theory, of physics, of eternal inflation, but mostly this:
When you turn left into the parking lot, and someone else is turning right? And that choice leads to a totally different life, I mean we're living on a blue ball spinning in the middle of space?
I tell them I know very little about quantum mechanics, that it sounds complicated.
Kinda like life, one of them says. We all nod.
All else is all else: Mixed-berry jam, Alex Boye's ‘Little Drummer Boy.’ Pink cheeks bouncing to the mailbox, returning with mittened checks. Stoneware mugs, spending gift certificates. A scholarship for next semester.
“And the great 'Now What?' stretching without end.”
―Lauren Groff
Happy December to you, friends.
