Snow gathers quick in the dark.
There is enough sadness in an empty house to fill every chamber of the heart. I am sitting on a floor surrounded by my words, lost in them. I feel sick.
Mind me as I open the blinds, I need to gaze at the night for a while . . .
I can feel my pulse in my eyes, my hands are so pale. I can see my veins flooding under my skin, my shoulders shudder.
I'm thinking of a gust of wind, huge and invisible as it scatters a newspaper over a field of shimmering grass. One day in our history has been written, passed along, and ignored.
Now, some watch their television screens, some open a book and lay next to their loved ones. Others binge on their favorite drug, back, back, until it lulls the nightmares of life into dreams. Soon, everyone goes to sleep. I wonder, who won't wake in the morning?
Last night I had a dream. I was alone, I was older than I am now. It was night. A fire deep in the dark sent ripples of light up a canyon, and at once, I recognized where I was. It was where we set sail your ashes, beside that juniper, that twisted marker planted in the earth as if to greet you when we let you go.
I remember how your remains moved through the air like snow. Each fragment slow, at peace, as if willed to saunter as it returned to the earth and the air.
Someday all that we have held so precious will be tattered and destroyed. It will fade.
There was not a star in that sky, in that dream. There was no wind. The chill earth was against my bare feet, the sting was so real. I held my breath and went down on my knees, and I prayed. For the first time since you died, I prayed to god, to God. I prayed in hopes of your safety, that maybe, somewhere in the wilderness of a world I'm too sad to see, you climbed trees like you did in your youth, and that you were happy.
Then I opened my eyes and the wind brushed out of the canyon. I felt my heart shift in its cage, and without rising to my feet I held my breath and waited until it stopped beating. Then I woke up.
Snow falls, serene, endless. It’s so quiet as it touches the window. If I put my ear against the cold glass I can hear it, like children’s whispers after bedtime.
I'm wiping a tear back, but I'm letting another pass, first warm, then cool, and now burning out against my lips. I try and taste it, but it disappears in my mouth. I couldn't catch hold before it was gone, back into me like a river to the sea. And my shoulders are still quivering.
I bite my bottom lip until I taste blood. My eyes look back to me from the window.
Outside, a figure walks under a black umbrella. They slow down as they pass my window. I wonder if they can see me in here, looking back . . . they move on. Their footprints lay in the snow, and something in me calls out to follow them, to meet them out there in the frozen dark and hold them close and tell them that they're not alone, but the footprints fade, and then they are gone.
Pitiful, I imagine you thinking.
If I cut myself, will I bleed the ink I've yet to spill?
If I die before my time, will I be happy, yet?
I sigh. I breathe. I wish I could stop. Breathing. Sadness.
I want to make it stop. I want to make it stop. I want to make it stop. I want to make it stop. I want to make it stop! I want to make it stop! I want to make it stop!
If only sometimes, let me be happy.
It isn't this lonely house that makes me cry. It's not that fucking snow, so beautiful, silent fall. I try and narrow my thoughts, try and close the windows to keep out the storm.
But I don't even know why I cry. Why I'm crying.
I put my hands around me, my eyes are closed now. As I write this.
In the morning, the whole world will be thick and pale and cold. The trees fat, stacked like pillows and pine needles, cotton curtains keeping the world warm till spring.
Then the sun will break the clouds. Everything will light up so clear and so stark that our eyes will close and flee. And then the snow will melt.
It will return to the earth and the air.
When will I kiss someone again? When will I let go of these memories? When will the day greet me? When I can smell the rain and feel alive? When I can take hands with you, whoever you may be? And smile? When I can smile?
No one answers. The house remains, empty.
I suppose, I'll keep writing.
I suppose, I'll keep breathing.
As if there was a difference.
And now I open my eyes.