I have two thoughts, and they are unconnected.
The first is the quality of light in the middle of March.
They have given us an hour more of sun,
and it’s had a surprising effect on me.
I have been arriving late to my ukulele lessons
since I began them in October. The evenings then were dark
and they got darker, and I learned my way
by the lit signs on stores and corners.
And as I ran a little late to my lesson
yesterday, I kept noticing pieces of architecture
that were unfamiliar to me:
a gazebo
benches
a facade.
My heart sank briefly as it occurred to me
that I had somehow gotten lost, and would be
even later than I thought.
Until I realized that the long light was simply
showing landmarks not previously illuminated.
I had not thought I could be disoriented
because the world was too well-lit.
Likewise, I do not expect the way
I get somewhat less work done because
the light convinces me that there is endless time to do it in,
though my evening obligations
have not moved any later.
The other thing I am thinking about is
family
and the rights they have over us,
or don’t have.
And what it would be like if
you lived a whole life figuring out who it was
you wanted to be and trying to be that person
and afterwards they said you
were the person they had wanted you to be
all along.
And did not like it when anyone
said anything else.
It doesn’t matter to the dead.
But it matters very much to those of us
who are still alive.
The memory being distorted is not really that dead person’s.
Memories are living things. The memory is ours.
These two things are not connected.
Except my brain says: March is a dead month.
The last dead month, with life already beginning to creep
back in around the edges.
Or the memory of life.
And it is March all over the world.