Alice Frampton

Black and White

in the sickroom
November sunlight
on the mountain picture

There aren’t many sunny days left. Mom can leave the blinds open more now. After the intense summer heat, the softer light is a gift. Dad sleeps most of the time, but when he’s awake and not struggling for air, he turns to the windows for his entertainment. Living and breathing the seasons has always been his thing. He watches the weather like a hawk, how it affects the animals and their cycles.

replacing Dad’s chair
with a hospital bed
—autumn twilight

It’s been two years. The rented bed takes up most of the living room, while the oxygen tank, rollaway eating-table, and a few small chairs occupy the corners. In the beginning everyone tiptoed and whispered in this room, but somewhere along the way we adapted to the changes. Outside the weather is shifting. I step to the sliding glass door for a breath of fresh air. Madrona bark and fir boughs, souvenirs of yesterday’s wind, freckle the grass. I’ll talk to my brother about one last mowing. The giant firs at the edge of the land are swaying gently and the soothing rhythm quiets my pounding heart. I grew up under the shelter of these trees. Forty years ago Dad cleared this lot leaving two strapping sentinels to protect us from strong gales, then positioned the house so that he could keep his eye on nature and the activity around the bay. But today the breeze off the water is blowing in from the north; a sure sign of severe storms ahead. November’s an iffy month; sun one minute, heavy rain or snow the next. I hear his voice and return to the group. He’s awake and reminiscing once more.

December tree fall—
at the windows
an empty space