I long for the cold icy winters our eastern counterparts dread.
The air that chaps my lips, making them swell.
The amount of snow that shuts down business, leaves families indoor until they catch cabin fever.
Not this warm sunny, a bit on the chilly side winter.
A winter that would make me seem warm on the inside, not hallow, cold, locked inside.
A cold that would justify my retreat from the world.
I long for the winter of my eastern counterparts.
The snow piled up to my waist, the icy wind against my face.
While the rest of me is toasty, maybe too warm from the layers of clothes, scarf, beanie, mittens, gloves.
Where, when I get home, the fire is crackling and warm
As I curl up with my Oprah-recommended novel.
Where there is warm soup on the stove.
No this half assed winter, where the sun shines everyday.
Where I need only a light jacket and where I try to curl up under my blankets, I’m too warm.
Where the roads are clean and I have no excuse to hibernate.
To retreat into my own world.
Where the winter within is much colder.
Where the icy wind I feel is from within.
Where the darkness that would descend early every evening,
descends every day and does not retreat at night.
Where when the rain falls, it is never for long enough…
The rain constantly slides down the glass panels of my soul
Creating a lake of which I will eventually drown.
The glass panels which keep me inside.
Drawing further in, as I draw the shades.
So no one can see my private winter.
My private winter.