Sometimes the hope of an early spring can be cruel.
There’s no reason living in a northern latitude to expect spring sunshine in February, but after a few weeks of unusually mild weather, I’m spoiled, and I admit it.
Brett’s out today—couldn’t go ice fishing like he planned so he and the boys are playing pick-up hockey in a local arena. Good for them—I need me time anyway.
Well, that’s what I tell myself, but I’ve never been good on my own. Too morose, as my mom would say.
I’m missing mom today. I’m missing a lot of things—mostly my lost innocence and the desire to go back and do it all over again, but this time get it right.
And now that’s gone too.
I mean in the end, would it really matter?
I begin to shake, so I light a fire and make tea—that always calms me down, for a while at least.
Fifteen months of Cam’s abuse—whatever was I thinking?
I should have seen the first signs—the simmering anger, the incessant phone calls, the oppressive questioning—but it felt good in a way to be owned.
But over a year of continual drama and constant explanations to friends justifying what couldn’t be explained—and well, here I am—shaking on my couch and looking out at the bleak tundra of yellow grass.
The doorbell chimes and I gasp. I fumble for my i-phone and check the cameras—just my Amazon order left leaning up against the front door.
I let out a breath and shakily put the phone back on the end table.
No bruises, no scars, at least outside—but inside, that’s another matter.
No one sees the inside, and like the doorbell and the camera, I decide who gets in, and right now that’s nobody.
Brett’s a good guy—we work together at Hampton Press—both copy editors—both undecided what to do with our lives.
“Let’s move in,” he says with a goofy smile when we find me a nice main floor flat with a view.
“Not happening,” I say flatly, and give him a look that melts that silly grin from his face.
Brett’s a good guy at arms’ length—eventually, he may be right, but for now I have security issues—and cameras and alarms don’t always help.
I start to cry—I hate that. I hate it when I sneeze too—it’s just an involuntary thing my body does to remind me I’m not in control.
I gaze out the window at the bare-branched Maple spreading an open vein across my view.
Everything is so sterile and bleak—the winter of my soul.
As I’m sitting here I sense a shift—the light changes and the atmosphere grows almost imperceptibly brighter and lighter.
I think of a feather floating in the calm of a still room.
I’m home. I’m safe.
I’m okay.
A few tears begin to trill down my cheek—but they’re a blessing—tears of relief, of having struggled and made it through.
I close my eyes and sleep—maybe only for an hour, but I awake to the same sense of blessed relief.
Outside, the stark landscape is gone– a soft powdery snow covers everything.
“How was your day?” Brett asks.
He’s been sitting across from me, just watching me and letting me sleep.
“Good,” I say, pulling the fuzzy blanket up to my chin—the blanket he’s gently draped over me.
“I had a nice quiet afternoon.”
@princessprose. All rights reserved.