Winter Solstice

In loving memory of Lucia Paz (light and peace)
who died, and then was born on Winter Solstice, 2008

Happy Birthday Lucy

Winter Solstice
written by her mother

It is the shortest day of the year.
Or the longest night.
(Is the glass half empty or half full? Or is the glass just not the right size?)
She died today.
Why does my life have to read like a high-school-English novel?
Symbols for everything, nothing as it seems, lessons learned by everyone.
The night is day, and St. Lucy stands with two eyes on her tray,
Looking over my family as we huddle around a small bundle
On someone else’s bed,
Soaking someone else’s sheets with our tears,
Staining someone else’s floor with her blood.

It is the longest night of the year
Or the shortest day.
(Our glass is transparent. You can make it whatever liquid you like.)
She died simply.
In the time between day and night, night and day,
A dusk that never shed a beautiful light.
That is now eternally dark.
Solstice is magic, I said once.
It is the darkest day of the darkest year.
Solstice means a beginning and an ending.
Tomorrow will be lighter.
The next day, more so, but does the sun really matter anymore?

When we don’t sleep, this is the longest day of the year.
(Our glass is broken. The floor is sticky from my carelessness.)
She is dead and born together in the same moment.
Her first day was her first night.
Not being able to tell the difference, she just continued sleeping.
Like some little, perfect Rip Van Winkle, who they had forgotten under a tree.
I am not a storyteller this time. I am a mother.
I am not a mother this time. I am a truth teller.
I am not a truth teller this time. I am a soothsayer.
I am not a soothsayer this time. A fortune teller with a cracked crystal ball.
Solstice is a curse. I said today.
Solstice is a nightmare.


originally published in Exhale Magazine May 2009