I used to sit in front of the heat vent and soak in the
warmth pouring out, as if it poured into my soul. It instantly cured my tense
bones. The shivers were welcomed by more billowing heat.
The heat blew warmth over cold floors that were walked on
with big wool socks.
A light gray cozy feeling took over as the white world
outside closed in around the walls.
Walls of my house, walls of blankets.
The small muted sound of a flake, building the snug, safe insulation
of silence.
Silence that enveloped me in midday sleeps – a small taste
of hibernation.
Other days I would drive on the frozen streets, past other
slow, misty headlights. I would belly up to bars and feel the old building
soaking in laughter – more memories - as we shared the cold in our bones.
Acclimated
Acclimated to the lasting snow. Acclimated to knowing the
snow will last.
The rain here doesn’t quite do that.
Just a dingy wash water gray, wrapped in wet soaked feet,
bare dying grass, and echoed sidewalks.
Where dark early nights don’t include the crunch from boots
and smoke from breath.
My breath is unseen. My footsteps are unheard.
No silence. No white. Just in my eyes when I close them to
remember, as the rain hits the pine needles.
Through squinted eyes, I make wishes. I am still not sure if
it is a craving for the snow or a longing for home. Or reaching for a time when
I grew more sturdy from the cold, frozen air.
As much as I piece my memory together, I set myself apart.
Because as I sit here wishing for just one day with – they
are wishing for just one day without.
I no longer endure – just remember.
An identity I can no longer identify with.
Drowned in the southern winter rain.