After a frigid week and an all-night drenching, the earth
awoke to a remarkable redoux -- a
humid, balmy simulacrum of Spring, wedged into a crevice of Winter. And so, though my son and (since
the bereavement) principal hike-mate
was still tarrying up in New Jersey (like Odysseus on Ogygia, entranced by Calypso), I set out for
the lake, alone save for ever-sensed presence of my late beloved bride,
ethereally by my side. (For those
of you with a Classical background, this will recall the eidolon of Helen of
Troy, in Euripedes.)
The lake, only recently frozen over, was now quite free of
ice. A flock of diving-ducks made sport with this, plying their dippy trade;
and a few turtles had seemingly emerged from whatever mudhole they hide in to
escape the winter’s wrath, and were sunning themselves on a log. Solitary joggers in T-shirts and shorts passed by.
On the far side of the lake, a brisk wind had sprung up, and
this fickle, now from in front and now behind. I sat down on a sunlit bench, half-hoping the Muse might
whisper, but in the event I mostly
joined the turtles in a dozy pleasure of motionless, wordless sunbathing. Such exposure increasingly abundant sun
is prophylactic against Seasonal Affective Disorder, a kind of dermal dialysis.
[-- 21 Dec 2018, officially the first day of Winter.]
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