Black ice
Dawn over Tjornin is pink and the lightest blue. The geese have only the smallest corner; winter has the rest.
I can believe they believed in trolls. Nothing moves by Thingvallatn except us. Zenella's hands are cold. She has beautiful hands, a perfection of form, achingly soft in my big paw. She didn't inherit her mother's thumb, the thumbs that the generations show each other when they meet.
I wish I could make her smile more. I know she will not remember Reykjavik but I cannot help hoping that the moments we pass, laughing as she throws snow at my sisters and me, will place one more brick in her happy memory of me and mine.
My life grinds me and wears me down. I don't always bear up well under it. I cannot seem to console myself that no one of us is as good a man as we would wish, because there is always the nagging feeling that perhaps some are. I am dreading the news that the scan will bring. I am dreading the possibility of decisions I am not equipped to make. It's at times like this I wish I had a god to beseech for help to bear up, if I need to bear up. I wish I could put a better face on it. It should be a joyous thing. I know it should.
But I'm looking at Zenella, and I think that fate, which it seems has cursed me often enough, will not bless me so much again.
posted by Dr Zen @ 8:53 pm
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