. . . Out on the marsh, blue water shows through shifting ice.

Tall brown reeds, slim as dancers, bend in the breeze.

A hundred thousand cattails, each one lit

by the low-angled light of a westering sun,

each brown seed head blazing

like the head of a saint.

~ The Marsh in Winter, Excerpt from ,Timothy Walsh

Oh, Charlie. He woke me early, too early. He wanted to be out in the snow, so I got him out as quickly as I could. It was pleasantly cold. The river is slushy and yellowish. All the evergreens hung with the weight of snow, branches toward earth. I snow shoed instead of skiing, as I realized I had to continue cutting my trail around the property. I felt pleasantly secluded in the quiet morning. My work winding down, a simpler day, and some time to do a bit of holiday shopping and preparing. I was thinking about the last Christmas my father was here at my house. What a strange, poignant, heartbreaking visit, and yet, how grateful I am to have had it. The moments of being able to provide some real comfort to him and Sylvia in their Alzheimer’s dislocation. Warming them up, before dawn, with hot chocolate and a fire when they couldn’t sleep and wanted to go home. The long walk I had with my father to the river when he tried to explain to me that something was wrong with the way his mind was working, and I asked him if this made him sad and he said no––that it just felt strange. it was a touching and hilarious time we had, with them packing their bags and waiting all Christmas Day by the front door to be driven home to where they could make sense of their moments. And Sylvia packing up all my blankets and framed pictures from the guest room, unable to tell what belonged to her and what didn’t, and me, standing by the door, still slipping my belongings out of her suitcase as my sister finally led them out the door to the waiting car to drive them home, and had McDonalds for her Christmas dinner instead of the feast we served in their absence. Yes, it was quite a final Christmas to never forget.