Writings in Rehab

Snow Day at Willamette Family


Snow fell. Lace-edged flakes large as quarters
and some of us, the women here, fell with arms
out-stretched, a blind, backwards dive,
a bent-kneed dance into five inch fluffs
of iridescent snow. Fell to make snow angels;
child's play in grown-up bodies, fragile
bodies, solid bodies, dark clear imprints
left as a reminder of our healing.

Some of us cried, hibernating in the small
caves of our rooms, hiding under heavy
blankets, curtains drawn to shut out
the light; the blinding light of piled
snow on bent, disabled branches, bushes
empty of their leaves, the hurried
piling on top of rooftops; Beauty we want
unseen; memories of our children spinning
like clay on pottery wheels, reminding us of loss.

We were given a free day; no process groups
in circled chaired rooms, four phone calls
to loved ones awaiting our return on the outside.
Beyond the four directional halls, beyond
the doors that lock only from the outside,
allowing us the choice to walk, sneak, run
if we so choose. But none of us did this day.
We remained enclaved within these walls
with forty women searching for our worth,
striving toward surrender in our lives, reminding us

that hope can settle in easy as a bloated
cake can settle as it cools. We are addicts
with our mouths open wide, heads tilted
toward the sky, slick tongues embracing wet
flakes, swallowing Mother Nature's sustenance
into our bellies, into our hearts, sloping
down to our slippers. We sat on wooden benches
under flapping, plastic tarps, smoked our cigarettes,
strained our ears toward the silence od snow
meeting with the ground. Such a kind greeting
of Heaven and Earth, ever reminding us to pray.