...but on Sunday it made a nice little luge run for the Child. The blizzard of '96 was way worse, though...much bigger drifts.
Yesterday the bird feeder had, in addition to the usual mob of sparrows, a mocker, a blue jay, and a cardinal. I'll be on the lookout for the slate-colored juncos; twice a year they pass through and eat up everything in sight, like a busload of tourists invading a rest stop on the interstate.
Carlos, the painter's assistant, is downstairs spackling Mom's old apartment...the snowy light and spackle have given the space an unreal appearance, milky and distant. Looking in at the two big, empty rooms from the outside was uncannily like my recurring dreams in which I discover a vast, dusty wing of the house that we never knew existed. These dream spaces have included an Edwardian-era servants' kitchen, a room filled with carved sarcophagi and fountains, a gallery flooded with sunlight, and a mysterious wing full of bedrooms containing priceless old furniture stuffed with antique letters and artifacts. The house, like Brooklyn, ultimately unknowable.