Were this an essay in Polish, its title would be a no-brainer. Plecień. It’s the silly-sounding word that appears only as rhyme after kwiecień—our name for April—and means weaver or braider, for the way this month is said to intertwine winter and summer in equal parts. A lilting juxtaposition, it evokes both and a great-grandma’s two cents and the puddle splash of a kindergartener’s glee. It’s wise but carefree, which is a good way for a thing to be.
No “cruelest month” complaints here, despite the fact that today is the third anniversary of the day my father died. I am still able to summon the trauma—and drama—of his death and its aftermath, but I am unable to see it in vivid color the way I once did. The texture of the loss has eroded and I am discovering myself at ease with the way he is now gone. I find him in thoughts, in memories, in the twitches of faces, in the ripple of my voice. That I still have access to him in all these conceptual, private ways was clear from the early days of my grief, but now I reach for him less and less. Still, he is always where I last left him, as dependable as ever. And today, on this date that should be mournful and difficult, I am driven to have a day only tinged with nostalgia, and to explain kwiecień-plecień to my imaginary audience. I shall also bake a chocolate cake, glazed with a dark chocolate water ganache perfumed intensely with lavender. Wiktor’s cake, we’ll christen it, and a man’s legacy will evolve.
I suspect that my father would share my ease with the way life has abruptly slowed because of the pandemic. Yes, he would be beside himself over the power-grab mayhem affecting Polish politics. Yes, we would worry together about the fate of lives and economies. Get out of this country while you can, he would implore, and we would laugh darkly at how that’s contingent on borders ever re-opening. We would tune in at dinnertime for a live viewing of a late-morning dispatch by Gov. Cuomo and we would marvel in tandem at the no-nonsense virtue on display, then mourn for “our” America. But the days at home? The license to cancel just about everything for pretty much forever without a wisp of guilt? The space to think, breathe, be, write, rest, remember, keep looking inward? This we would exult in together. We would count the ways to panic but we would end up united in the relief of ones who never could quite bring themselves to get out of the house without suffering a tiny nervous breakdown.
The photo above was taken last week in Ruda, the cabin in the woods that was once my dad’s writing retreat. More than a pretty picture, it is meant as (1) a metonym for the ways this particular place is a salve for these times, (2) a remarkably literal illustration of April’s “weaving” ways, (3) a synecdoche for the forest as a whole or perhaps for nature itself, and (4) the perfect metaphor for my grief at this phase of its maturation. It is also, maybe, one more thing: proof that whatever part of me wields the camera is more open, tuned in, and observant then ever. After all, odds are I’ve captured a recurring stage in the life of this ashleaf maple, maybe even one it undergoes every April. So how come this is the first time I’m seeing it?
Here are glimpses of life on lockdown as we’ve been living it. The haircut is bound to be a hit, as is that fierce portrait of my beautiful mother. Also make sure to get a good look at the thieving bird that stole one of my cardamom rolls as they were cooling on the balcony. Do yourself a favor and don’t leave any baked goods unattended around this impertinent brute.
