Behind the Lines: by David Heiller

David Heiller We headed out for a walk at 6 a.m. on Friday morning, March 22. Cindy and I like to start our day in Brownsville with a walk, and there are plenty of places to go. We headed to the railroad tracks, then turned north. That’s when we felt the wind. It raced up the river and stuck us in the back like a dagger. We hadn’t gone far before we turned around and faced it head on going home. It cut through our clothes. This was the second day of spring? But when we got home, sunlight was pouring through the upstairs window like melted butter. And despite the chilly wind, it somehow carried the promise of spring. It told a hopeful story. David, Grandma Schnick and Cindy in her sun-drenched home, 1980. It reminded me of my grandma, who lived there for almost 40 years. How many times did she awaken to that same golden light and have it brighten her day? Maybe that’s why she was able to brighten my day so often. She was passing on the sun. Last Friday morning, I could...

David Heiller “I’m missing the rugs.” Cindy has been saying that for the past several weeks. I’ll bring a cart load of boxes in from the garage, and we’ll unload them and find a place for the Tupperware and shoes and books. Then pretty soon Cindy will say, “I’m missing the rugs.” Α few more cartloads of boxes will come in, and we’ ll unload them and find a place for the pots and pans and pictures. Then pretty soon Cindy will say, “Ι’m missing the rugs.” I thought I knew where the rugs were when we first started loading the garage up with boxes last summer. I thought I knew where everything was. One of the old rugs, when it was a new rug. Cindy sco ff ed at that. “We’ ll never be able to find anything a ft er we move,” she said, and as usual, she was right. Because somewhere in the sheer volume and chaos of moving 24 years of married possessions, and a few fond bachelor items too, I lost my grip on what was where. That bothered me, because I’ve always liked to...

David Heiller Noah with some tremendous icicles... Ice jams are one of the banes of northern living.   You wouldn’ t call it a sign of spring, The water dripping off the roof Like it did last Saturday. No, you’d need a lot more proof Than that. And so I won’t begin To make more of it than was there. Just some steady drops of water Falling through the winter air. Yet I climbed up on the roof, Quicker than a playful otter. I had to look, it’s been so long Since we’ve seen ice turn into water. The edges of the roof were caked With ice about 10 inches thick. A winter’s overcoat of snow had Built an ice dam, white and slick. And yes, as often is the case, It found a crack above the door That goes into the entryway And made a puddle on the floor. I guess Ι should have patched that spot. But it was a small price to pay, To see this winter lose its grip, A puddle in t...