First
Snow
by
Tammy Ho Lai-Ming
You
show me the communal snow-covered garden,
and
point to one of the dwarf wooden boxes—
that’s
where you keep your bicycle.
Its
saddle retains your smell,
despite
the rain you rode through,
just
the day before.
I
think of the oft-repeated story
of
two bed-bound patients in a terminal ward:
One’s
bed is next to the window,
the
other’s pushed against the wall.
This
could be a beautiful picture:
“It’s
snowing. First proper snow in years,”
the
first says.
“I
can see car wheels stitch marks on the snow.
Sometimes
a fox or two phantom around.”
The
other patient is jealous:
“Tell
me more. Tell me more.”
We
cannot see so far; we can only see now.
Scaffolding
is blocking some of the view.
In
teatime light, dark as night,
you
and I begin to reflect on the glass.