Distance Vision

Distance Vision

White cross trainers, a thermal lined hoody and me
outside for a change. The deadbolt clicked
into place at 6:52. Feathery light filters through cirro-stratus
clouds and into my foggy brain. I stretch my legs, then
head around our block. Yesterday’s warm winds
blew most of the snow away. Shredded branches,
pine cones and needles litter front lawns. Gravel left from
winter plows crunches beneath my soles. Workaday traffic
speeds along I-90 to reach the first shift.

I stomp the miniature ledge
of ice that lines the curb, it’s crackle echoes
between homes and wooded hollow.
My breath, a measured steam,
issues eastward between my lips, then prickles
my cheeks with blowback.

Hands deep in pockets, middle schoolers
dressed in orange and black watch for a bus, pretending
not to notice each other at the morning stop. Silent,
deep in the angst of adolescent drama, they try
to insulate themselves from the coming tussle
on cracked green upholstery, sworn
blasts of brave bullies, and halls crowded
with the clang of the locker doors.

I nod, walk around the corner, reminded that the seasons,
they are a-changin’. My daughters have moved on, their rooms
transformed for a house of two. A street sweeper growls
along Ponderosa Blvd. The honk of
Canadian geese overhead has gone mute. In its place,
sweet songs of neighborhood robins and chirps
of backyard squirrels have returned.

Turning down the final slope,
I awaken. An adrenalin aftertaste
sticks to my tongue, left over
from the short sleep of nightmares.
Promise of longer days filled with light blow
my darkness away. Chaotic synapses calm into
threads of prose. Distance vision. Light. Air.



Margaret M. Davaz
February 23, 2012


Mental illness is a challenge
but it can be managed
.