The Winter that Took the Sunshine

I want to tell you a story. It isn't like the other ones.

It's about the slant of sunlight across leaves,

And the faint ripples of water across a reed-filled pond.

It's simple shapes I remember from my childhood.

They have no right to exist in my head as they do.

It's cold here. Not all the time.

But enough of it that I miss the rain.

I miss the unpredictable hot, summer days where I couldn't go outside

Because it felt like my hair and skin would crawl with bugs.

When I'm there, I complain about the weather and the people.

But it's in a way that I complain about home.

This isn't my home.

My children have grown up here.

Ice skating, feeling the wind against their hair

And running through the fields outside our house.

They know a different home than me.

I was content to watch them.

They brought a bit of home back for me.

But that isn't what it's like anymore.

The chill pulls at my heart just as much as it pulls at my clothing.

It tells me there is nothing left. There is no one left.

I drink. I drink to warm myself.

To numb the numbness.

To hide the cold. I smile,

But it doesn't show the same light anymore.

I want to go home.

Maybe then, even if I leave the lights of my children behind,

I will find my own light again.

Maybe then, I will have this feeling of dancing

And sunlight touch my heart.

Take the numbness away.

Take the numbness away.

But it doesn't.

Home isn't home anymore.

The sun isn't bright anymore.

I go through the motions of smelling the rain,

Of tending the ground, of letting the light touch me.

But it isn't there. Not really.

I die alone, old, tired,

And without remembering what warmth felt like.