Pearly Everlasting By Tammy Armstrong

In the frigid embrace of winter, my earliest memories form like fractured images through a fogged window. The sound of sleet, stuttering against the lean-cabin’s small panes, might be the first thing I recall—its erratic rhythm, sometimes from the east, sometimes from the west. Or perhaps it’s the wood fire, its crackle and pop filling our room with the heavy scent of pine-cone dust and the acrid smoke of punky kindling, scavenged from rotting stumps.

I might remember the creak of red cedars, their limbs tangled in storms, encroaching too closely with their overbearing presence. The spat of rain on the splint-shingle roof—spruce, green, and pliable—might also stand out, its bark-side-down sheen keeping the water at bay. The coyotes’ howling serenades, echoing through the wilderness, or the wide-throated owls hooting their replies from the darkened branches might also come to mind.

Yet, perhaps what shapes my memories most vividly is the sense of all these elements mingling together, defining the space I inhabited in those early months. Nestled deep inside a wicker basket beneath a moose-skin throw, I was cocooned in a world of nature’s harsh beauty and intimate warmth. My brother, Bruno, was there too, curled up against my back. His pale snout rested under my chin, and his long-clawed paw lay against my ribs, a silent guardian in the deep winter’s hush.