Snowfall on Ash Wednesday

The First Day of Lent

From dust we were gathered,
and to dust we shall return.

I didn’t get the imposition of ashes today
because of the snowstorm that took Portland by surprise.
I left work early,
but apparently not early enough,
since I still wound up parking my car on a side street
and walking the remaining two miles home.

The front of me was blanketed in white.
Snow lodged itself in the patchy growth I’m optimistically calling
”a beard” as well as throughout my shoulder-length hair.

Truth is, I liked walking in the snow.
It reminded me of when I lived in Philadelphia,
and the first time I witnessed a whole city go quiet.
At the time, we lived on one of the few two-way streets
in the neighborhood,
which meant we lived on the bus route.
And though the buses weren’t deterred for long—
for SEPTA, like love, never fails—
there was a span of a few hours where all the commotion of the city
ceased.

If Pentecost was a blizzard of tongues of fire that descended on people
and created a flurry of voices speaking multiple languages,
the snow I saw that morning on 29th Street
was a single, bright song
that fell in thick, metronome flakes
and stilled an entire city—along with my nervous heart—
into precious, thunderous silence.
I was twenty-six and I sat at the front window and said nothing
and watched as the snow
tucked me in to awe.

From dust we were gathered,
and to dust we shall return.

I remained on the phone with Jenae while I walked
and told her about how neither the coffee grinder
nor the coffee maker functioned properly.
Both of them are higher-end models whose design
merges Star Trek, Apple and torture devices.
I pressed the buttons I was told to press,
but they didn’t function as I was told they would function.

After that, I said, didn’t know what to do next.
I examined the devices but couldn’t tell where the seams were,
if any existed at all.
I stood there with my empty cup, pressing the buttons
that seconds earlier, did nothing for me.
I felt powerless to fix either the coffee grinder or maker,
and I felt powerless to deal with my personal work frustrations,
and I felt powerless to get my car home safely.

She listened, said “I’m sorry about the coffee maker,”
then told me about the online class she’s taking
and what she learned that day
about meiosis and possible complications
that arise with pregnancies for people over thirty-five.

We are not pregnant,
but if we were to become so,
those complications—or at the very least,
their increased potential—
would be part of our inheritance.

Earlier that morning,
I opened a pdf that was a journal guide for Lent.
In it, I read that the average life expectancy for the U.S. male is
seventy-six years old.
”Given that information,” the guide said, “where do you find yourself
on that path? How close are you to that life expectancy?”

At thirty-seven,
I’m presently tip-toeing the edge of the halfway mark,
and that’s generously assuming—arrogantly so, perhaps—
I will have a second half of life
void of sickness or personal calamity.
The days are not promised me.
What has been has been a gift,
and whatever remains shall be also.

From dust we were gathered,
and to dust we shall return.

When I arrived home, Jenae had a cup of coffee waiting for me,
and though it was nearly five in the afternoon by this point,
I started off dinner with a piece of the king cake
we made over the weekend.

At six-thiry, we watched the online livestream of our church’s service.
When the video and audio feed first came on,
I heard the voice of who I assumed to be
the sound mixer talking about which mics
were for which person.
Then, the mixer probably realizing this, the feed went silent,
and stayed that way until service began.

After two songs and an opening greeting,
one of the pastors stepped onstage
and asked us to position our feet
on the ground, close our eyes
and practice a breathing prayer
as best we could.
”Here I am, Lord,” he suggested, or another—”Holy Spirit, Come.”

I said neither and thought about what our lives would be like
if we were to get pregnant
and if I would be a joyful parent or not
and if there were to be complications
and would there be anyone to help
and what would that mean for work
and would I still have to come in to work the next day
and would there be coffee
and who was I a year ago
and could I have foreseen any of what was to happen
between the last time someone told me
so gleefully and so emphatically
that I am going to die
and now?

Someone else’s voice broke across the livestream.
I opened my eyes and looked up.
Had I fallen asleep?
Yes. Perhaps so.
Perhaps, if I’m lucky, that is death—
my mind filling with grief, with wonder, with joy and with sorrow,
then falling asleep.
I don’t know.
I don’t know.
I don’t know.

I hope there’s coffee tomorrow,
should I get to see it.

From dust we were gathered,
and to dust we shall return.

Holy Spirit, come.

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