It was three days before Christmas Eve 1992
The woods lay still on Chemin Blueberry,
A tongue of hoar frost smudging the windows
Of the vacant summer houses, passing ghosts.
Headlights dance like Baryshnikov upon
the reluctant shore of frozen Lac Louisa.
Beside me, my boys laughed because
They were headed to Grandpa’s for Christmas.
The satisfaction this gave me was enormous.
So much so I carried too much speed down
the hill into the switchback headed north.
Gently, like a birchbark canoe easing to shore,
the van stayed straight as the road moved left.
With only the rustle of soft snow braking
our slide, the van came to rest, nose-down,
In six feet of snow beside the deserted road.
When he saw the back end of the van
Standing so high above the ditch, my eldest
let out a laugh of delight. His brother cried.
There was no moving the van tonight, no
rocking it back and forth with boys in tow.
No chance traffic to rescue us holiday makers.
So we set off, two miles of bucking road ahead,
a cold wind that punched you in the chest.
In the summer’s warmth I’d made this walk a
hundred times, to the lullaby of bull frog songs.
Now, no songs. Just the preposterous thought,
Of expiring this way, mere days before Xmas,
My sons clinging to me for warmth as we
perished in the long, dark Quebec nighttime.
What kind of father had I turned out to be?
I grabbed my eldest by his mittened hand,
Lifted the younger into my arms, pulled the key
From the ignition and started the slow walk
Through the ink-black night. Thinking the
whole time, how wonderful a porch light
In the distance beneath a shelf of snow,
And forgiveness in my own father’s wave.
