Fire in the Treetops

On Friday I drive in the snowstorm to Waltham for my fortnightly therapist appointment. (You know I have bipolar disorder, right?) Afterwards I facilitate a bipolar/depression support group . By the time I’m driving back from Belmont, the snow has stopped and the western sun, dipping below the cloud cover, shines brightly.
I decide to stop by the cemetery. I haven’t visited David’s grave for several weeks. The paths are plowed and I have no problem finding his grave, since the grave opposite of his has a small American flag.
As I get out of the car, looking northeast past the grave, the tops of the trees are on fire, dazzling white. The effect is stunning. I’ve chronicled the changes in seasons at the cemetery, from the deep August green through the autumnal colors. This day the landscape is otherworldly: white expanses of snow on the ground, every twig of the huge trees covered in snow, and white fire in the treetops.

The 'grief loop' continues: work-a-day life interspersed with sadness. A surprising trigger: automatic paper towel dispensers. Soon after David died, I saw a black Georgia Pacific dispenser with the outline of a hand illustrating the no-touch feature. All MGH restrooms have the same model. But now, months later, whenever I use a paper towel dispenser of any kind, I think of David.