Piercing

The wind is as sharp as the icicles forming on the shed roof, the ones which seem to point at the disorder that the snow is hiding. I can’t deal with physical mess until the emotional clutter is sorted, but I have given up going to see that sultry tight-skirted shrink for if five sessions didn’t help, why bother with the sixth? Either too much time has passed or too little. Was it not this time last year that I found out the truth? An eye for an eye, says Gandhi, will only make the whole world blind, but he never met my husband. Every peaceful protest the Jathi Pitha promoted is counterbalanced by each new stabbing thought courteously visiting the migraine of my mind, each fresh way of killing the one I vowed to love and cherish, each alibi it would only be too easy to construct. I turn away from the icicles, and see the snowman the twins are building, forcing myself to focus on the coal eyes for even the carrot could be a dagger.