My Mother Winter/Father Spring
Dolly Parton lamenting about Jolene while people drifted in from the cold.
My mother died in winter,
when hoarfrost tipped pine cones. She was December in the Western North Carolina mountains. Dark coming early against Cold Mountain, Turner Classics
flickering blue through the house.She loved every winter holiday— the crowded kitchen, damp peacoats by the door, voices stacked on voices until the windows steamed. She could be warm as chicken mull soup left simmering all afternoon or sharp as Pisgah Mountain weather turning without warning. Clear sky one moment, Appalachian Wedge storm next.
Golf tees in his pocket, brogans dark with garden soil, sweet iced tea sweating beside him on the back patio.
My father died in spring,
when the earth had already softened for planting. He was April, planting more than our family could ever eat. Rows for neighbors, too. Big Boys and Silver Queen corn passing hand-to-hand down the road. He carried warmth differently. Not gathered close like firelight, but scattered freely. A grin for strangers, a wave from the driveway, his quiet way of tilling and tending.
My grief moves the same way seasons navigate those hills and hollers: longing for Mom gathering inward. Dad moving towards light.
