Spring ought to have made gains by now but our days remain gray and ice-sheathed. Without notice, something sharp and cautionary breaks through. Impulses one could call manic threaten the compliant, silent demeanor I have cultivated these many weeks. Happy hysteria is feared yet longed for, its green brightness something I must withhold, a peculiar, protective, irrational impulse. Tiles in the shower enclosure fall away from plaster that is black in places with mold.
Chunks tumble into the tub where they remain.
I wash anyway, feeling a shadow of guilt by doing this healthy, normal thing. The two calculate that by not bathing they can delay repairs indefinitely. I recall seeing my brother with damp hair on two occasions, my father never, but he hasn't much hair. My father cuts deadfall with a chainsaw this morning. The branches are small, about three to four inches in diameter, and he cuts enough to fill the bottom of an old wheelbarrow, then rolls it up the lawn to the screened porch which is covered by plastic sheets that do not come off in summer.