The Colors Of My Palette

An Icy Winter

It started off with a handshake.

A grey dreary day greeted me from sleep's clutches. I stretch, feeling the sick but satisfying muffled cracks from along my limbs after hours of misuse. Sitting up and pulling open strayed and withered curtains,

I'd have to ask mom to patch those up later

a visit from Jack Frost himself shows itself. Blankets of white topped off with delicate crystal icicles were all to be seen, decorating the streets as though they were a part of mother nature's own canvas. I hated the winter. All it did was leave behind frostbitten tips and red noses, and that was besides the fact that I haven't had a proper winter jacket in years anyway.

Sighing again before softly closing the curtains, not wanting to damage them more than they already were, I slide off the bed and immediately suppress a shiver. The icy wooden floor boards seep into my skin, leaving each spot renewed with a brief warmth sapped from the little heat I already had.

By the time I reach downstairs the little shivers that knack my frame are getting harder and harder to ignore. It was only 10 months into the year. The warm and colorful scenery painted from autumn leaves and crisp evenings barely lasting past the harvest. 

Winter had started earlier this year, and I knew that that was really gonna put a wrench in me and mom's routine.

Thin slender hands, coarse from years of hardwork and undernourishment grab at a large pot, filling it up to the brim. The soft sound of water floods the room, bouncing off the walls. With a grunt, thin hands manage to lift the pot to the stove before turning it on its highest setting. The escaped heat from the stove works to warm up the freezing room, a small sizzling sound replacing the silence.

I trudge to the back of the room, grabbing a chair and scraping it against the hardwood. If the floor was new, I would have worried about it scarring. As it was, there were more scars and marked tattoos against the floor than the smooth dark wood that it used to be.

 I stop when I reach the window, placing the chair upright before plopping down onto it, my knees immediately coming up to my chest, my arms wrapped around them.

 I had to wait for the water to completely boil before leaving. My mother always scolded me when I left the stove on without watching it. She claimed it was dangerous, not that anything had ever happened to me, but she had her scars that showed rather than told the story of what had happened to her. 

"Always watch the stove, you don't wanna end up looking like me now do you love?" She'd joke, but the hard look in toffee coloured pools always gave away how tired and concerned she was.

I keep my eyes trained on the stove, never taking them off for a second in fear of what might happen before a loud honking sound startles me out of my daze. Whipping my head to the window, I see the garbage truck running its routes. Honking at some kids who thought it'd be funny to jump in front of it at the last second.

 It's clearly funny to everyone but the driver who looks like he is seconds away from popping a vein. Rolling my eyes at the scene in front of me, I unwrap my hands and bring them in front of my mouth, blowing warm cusps of air onto them. Trying, but failing to reheat them enough to return circulation to them.

"Baby, are you up yet?" A scratchy voice asks. It comes out as muffled due to the distance between me and my mother as she makes her way towards me. Creaks escape from under her feet, sounding as though they'll give way from underneath her and it's certainly not from her weight.

"Yes, I'm in the kitchen." A chestnut head pops around the corner, a smile making its way from chapped lips to large almond shaped eyes. "Did you sleep well?" My mother was a tall, slender woman with long curly brown locks matted onto a small head. Despite being underweight she still managed to look almost graceful in her movements. She had me quite young, only being nineteen and just turning twenty eight this year.