It’s still snowing
for God’s sake when will it stop?
I wished for snow in August and now it’s here
I need to stop wishing for shit.
What a trap!
Perhaps if it wasn’t so gray and dim and gloomy–
but on the other hand, what a great excuse
for laziness and depression!
Yesterday’s ebullient mood is just a memory blur.

Massive doses of vitamin D and still
it snows and I feel damned useless
though God knows what I’d be like
if I didn’t take it.
So I take it, even after an article
that says most doctors claim
vitamins and supplements
are completely useless and don’t do anything.
I feel very powerful when I am taking my vitamin
supplements even when I gag on
a Centrum Silver pill the size of
Rhode Island.
Some herbs (Chinese ones especially–I learned the hard way)
actually do harm.
I keep taking vitamins anyway.
I’ve been doing this for 30 years or more–
why stop?
“let the snow stop but the vitamins continue”
is my new mantra.

looking out the window of Unchartered Books
it is Saturday and I am amidst the group of writers
I meet with on Saturdays I wonder,
Maybe I am just the gloom and doom type.
Someone on Facebook asked for a word to describe
the bulk of our writing and I posted
That pretty much says it all.

Every day feels like it’s OK but it could also be my last
and at least twice or thrice (I always wanted to use Thrice somewhere) an hour
I think about Death.
My death, mostly, although occasionally the death of others, past, present, future.
You never know. You gotta be prepared.
I rehearse my own death in a thousand different variable ways–
I create scenarios about the many kinds of ways I could die,
though I tend to repeat some over and over and over–
I imagine the many kinds of funerals including cremation and
having the kids throw my ashes over the rim of the Grand Canyon.
Sometimes in my scenes the kids are sad and solicitous as I lay dying
(Faulkner! Faulkner!)
but other scenes they hate me, they ignore me or they spew nasty, ugly
diatribes at me, around me, to me, about me.

Speaking of death but not apropos of it, I recently thought about how
incestuously connected everyone was when I was
growing up.
Milton Grossman was married to Gloria and they had Jeff (and Jeff’s sister
whose name I forget), and I had a crush on Jeff in Sunday school for ten years–
he was a gorgeous blond but so incredibly dumb! It was unbelievable how dumb he was
even though Gloria was an intellectual with amazing cheekbones and such a smile and Milton
was a professor at Michigan State.
Jeff didn’t like me anyway.
Milton’s sister was Rosalind who became my stepmother six months
before my mother Blanche died in 1981–Rosalind and Herman, her then-dead husband,
had been friends of my parents since their Muskegon days
way back in the 30’s when they all got married and embarked on the American dream–
wedding bells to the belly of the beast.
But that was much later.
My parents were, of course, dear friends of Milton and Gloria too–
they were all friends and connected and part of the same
small group of Jewish people in Lower Michigan.
I guess there weren’t that many.

All of these people are dead now.

And my father married the widow of the couple that were
supposedly their dear best friends
and Rosalind became the 2nd Mrs. Fine which was completely weird
when I went to Walnut Hills Country Club and saw two lockers with
Mrs. Fine on them in the women’s locker room.
Six months later my mother died.
She didn’t want to share being Mrs. Fine.
She didn’t have to and Rosalind hadn’t earned it anyway.

Then two years later, when the pre-nup wore off
Ros took half a mill and bought a condo
in Tucson and left him. Many years after that
I went to live in Tucson, long after my father had died,
and actually hung out with Ros but she proved to be
quite difficult and I went on to graduate school
in N. Virginia and she went to a nursing home in the east
near her eldest son Michael.

My dad was alone for eight years after Ros left. Those
last eight years were intense and they pretty much
sucked for him
but he was a brave and deeply positive man with a ton
of repressed rage so somehow he got through it with the
help of me, his three grandchildren and
Xanax, Wellbutrin and twelve other pharmaceuticals.
I once made a list of the drugs he took
but I can’t remember all of them. I kept track for him
and every time we went to the hospital
emergency (more and more often those last years),
I had the list of medications in my purse.

Now I am moving toward the age my father was when all this shit started.

And it’s still snowing.

3 thoughts on “It’s Still Snowing : A New Year and a New Poem

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