Snowstorm

The Boychen cries.

The Boychen cries and cries and cries until I feel like I'm lost in a snowstorm and can't see my way out of it and all I can think about, as the snow swirls around me, is how nice and cozy I was before I set out into this storm. Warm and safe at home by the fire with my little family of three, and I set out into this snowstorm by choice, ripping up all my comforts on an icicle wind.

He cries until I cry and think that we did, in fact, make a mistake; that all my ambivalence was well founded; that I've shredded my happy little family and tossed the pieces out into the winter wind; that we will never find a way to mend these four pieces; that we will never be happy again. He cries until I can't see through it anymore, until I can't remember if I love him.

He cries until I put him in the stroller and walk and walk and walk. I walk the streets of the most beautiful city in the world and see nothing. Without even looking up I walk past vistas that once made poetry pour out of me as easily as snow falling from the sky. I walk without thinking, I walk without direction, I walk without seeing. I walk until the Boychen sleeps.

When the Boychen sleeps I keep walking. I walk along the river, I walk past the embassy, I walk through the Old Town, I walk until I can hear something besides the sound of his cries. I walk until I look up. I look up until I see something. The Münsterturm keeping watch over the Old Town. A cherry-red tram reflected in the waters of the Aare. The slope of the Rosengarten. The cobblestones of the Old Town. The statue of Gerechtigkeit. I walk until I can see these things. I walk until I can breathe. I walk until I remember that I love him. Until this. Until this. I walk until this.