There is snow on the mountains today. There probably was yesterday, but I didn’t notice, which is sad since it is one of the reasons I love living here—there is still something magical about seeing the sun come up, it’s rosy hue glittering off the newly snowy mountain ranges in the west.
I am ready for this season to be over. Over and done, whether I conquer the season, fall prey to it, or simply survive it. At least it will be over. Summer is my favorite, mainly due to the simple affection of the sun. Winter is always difficult with its early nights and lingering cold. However, typically, my happiest emotions come during this season right now. The chill in the air, the changing of the leaves, the autumn colored scarves and sweaters and jackets. All foretelling of one thing. Christmas. Decorating the tree. Wrapping paper color schemes. Dinners with the ones I love the most. Unwrapping the last few gifts under the tree Christmas night with puppies and the man who I thought would be there for the rest of my Christmases. It’s when I feel the homiest, the most rooted to my life and to my connections. When I really see all the good and beauty that has been bestowed upon me and that I have worked so hard for.
The further away April becomes, the more I have to admit, I saw it coming. Not really. I felt it coming. Each moment was becoming more and more special, as if my soul knew there was only so much breath left and I needed to relish every second. Somehow the clearer this becomes, the more it feels like a death to me. Like something that not only won’t return, but can’t. No matter how much I long for it to rise from the grave and hold me, tell me it loves me, the voice has deteriorated and the arms have lost their compassion. The lengthening nights and the growing cold only serve to accentuate what was and what isn’t. I’m not sure how to face what had become the pinnacle of my happiness when each occurrence whispers icily, thrusting words and memories that have flown from me. Whether I loved someone who wasn’t there, someone who didn’t know how to face who they really are, or someone who simply discovered I wasn’t enough to stay for, I guess the distinction doesn’t change the absence. Doesn’t change what is. Doesn’t change the fact that I’m not sure how to keep moving without becoming someone hard and ugly. I cower from the days ahead. If they hold more tears, more numbness, or even some laughter—they frighten me. Each crisp dark morning, each cold solitary night, each tradition and ritual that passes all forcing upon me the life I finally was allowed to live and the existence in its quake.
Black Coffee Tables
1 year ago