On a Cold Day

           One wants a room with no view,
            so imagination can meet memory in the dark.
                 —Annie Dillard


Facing the wall I am not distracted by an occasional bird or a squirrel’s  frantic behavior. Our early snow upsets. I don’t notice the rare car on the street and I can’t fret over the bush that refuses to grow.  Nor do I count the dog walkers and their charges— nor the mailman carrying catalogues promising me radiant skin,  kitchen gadgets guaranteed to cut my preparation time, offers of delicacies sent through the mail each month, or a plethora of credit card applications.

My wall is not empty, but it isn’t moving —drawing me in —encouraging me to wonder about  comings and goings. Instead I stare at one hundred colored pencils set in a three tier wood stand. Each pencil in its spot waiting to be called upon.

If it is too quiet I find the noise of silence intrusive. It fills up the space. But too much noise distracts. Memory, for me, happens when I see or hear something that is a reminder, an echo that feels familiar. It also happens when I count backwards.