by Susan Michele Coronel (New York, NY)
It’s mid-January, nearly a month after Hanukkah
ends, when I notice the first appearance
of white flakes in 700 days. I celebrate
the return of predictable winter joy, when ice
slicks sidewalks, & fluffy blankets shroud
windshields, press their weight into branches.
I scrape my van after a spot of freezing rain,
loosen snow & ice from door handles
before temperatures plunge into the teens.
On Facebook, I skim photos of my daughter’s
campus, where kids haul cardboard rectangles
up scenic slopes, clock tower behind, dots
of city lights below. It’s the same campus where
a professor said he found the Hamas attack
in Israel “energizing” and “exhilarating.”
A British friend reports snow’s arrival with
photos on WhatsApp, streetlamps casting
a ghostly glow over parked cars & hedges.
He says he just checked on his sister,
who has poor balance due to cerebral palsy.
On my side of the world, darkness advances.
Trump wins the Iowa caucus without a sneeze.
The night before, I watch a documentary about
a 93-year-old Holocaust survivor visiting
Warsaw with her adult son. She recalls how
Jewish policemen beat ghetto Jews with clubs
to get them onto trains—if successful, they’d
spare their own lives. They wore the same
boots as Nazis, crisp black against the snow.
Outside my window, flake by flake, snow
tapers & stops. A few neighbors continue to
shovel or salt walkways. Maybe a few–
like me–look outside & gape in wonder
at a lavender sky that sheds white sparkles
over our ordinary lives. We are like candles,
gazing through curtains at the ever present dark.
Susan Michele Coronel lives in New York City. She has received two Pushcart nominations and won the 2023 Massachusetts Poetry Festival First Poem Contest. Her poems have appeared in publications including Spillway 29, Plainsongs, Redivider, and Fourteen Hills. In 2021 her full-length manuscript was a finalist for Harbor Editions’ Laureate Prize, and in 2023 another version of the manuscript was longlisted for the 42 Miles Press Poetry Award.
A beautiful and painful narrative, Susan…Loving the last lines, I am hoping (and I believe) there are more than a few of us who “gape in wonder at a lavender sky”, and send light into the darkness in whatever ways we’re able.
Moving images. I, too “gape in wonder at a lavender sky”.
And haling from Ottawa, Canada, I relish every – now so rare – snow flake, and pray it signals hope.