Three cows emerged from the trees along the iced over creek and walked the worn path to the barn. Ghostly shapes gliding across the misty landscape bawling to be milked, their voices echoing far up the frozen valley. Mary McLennan loved December mornings. She’d rise before dawn to sit quietly in the old chair by the front window and watch the darkness retreat, waiting for the sun’s early light to slowly, slowly paint color to the day.

        Deep within each winter sunrise there was a moment when Mary felt sure she could touch eternity. Sometimes the moment would linger to fill her heart with joy and hope. But this morning it flew by, leaving her feeling lonely and small. Like a summer gourd sucked empty by the long winter. “If I could hold my life in my hands and shake it, that’s what it’d surely sound like. An empty gourd.” Snow was falling again. Ghostly flecks of frozen water drifting silently to earth, covering the land with tiny white snow-feathers. She leaned her head against the glass and stared across the cove. “Snowfalls in this time of sorrow are trapped within my memory like the life I used to know.”