december, i welcome you with open arms.
it is about 8:30. the sun is not yet at its full height, but easily shines through my window and reflects off of the pure whiteness of the snow. the light is able to penetrate every little corner of my room. it's very bright. i'm not quite sure why i am awake. the air is very cool, probably around thirty-five degrees fahrenheit, and i can feel it on every inch of my exposed skin, seeping into my lungs and sharpening my mind. the nightclothes i've not bothered to change out of aren't heavy, but they are soft, and keep my body just warm enough to prevent it from shivering. i sit under no blankets, just the laptop upon me. the house has not yet awoken as i have, and i have not even bothered to touch the door. i don't want to interrupt this connection i have with the room at the moment, and it feels like laying so much as a finger on the door will launch me into my daily life. i want to prolong this moment as much as i can.
my house feels empty. there is no other way the silence could be as pure as the color of the snow directly outside my window, disturbed not even by squirrel pawprints, much like i hear not so much as breathing or the footsteps of the dogs or creaking of the cupboards. i decide suddenly to cover my clock with a bowl. time doesn't concern me, and i don't want to measure this by minutes and seconds. i want to measure by my own bodily rhythms and forget these measures exist. i exhale deeply and watch my cold breath fill the room and then disappear. my hands roam up to my hairline. i feel that my hair's frozen, and this does not surprise me. i am sure that i went to sleep with a wet head.
i tilt my head back and press my right hand to the computer screen. it's as cold as i am, and as odd as it seems i have not touched it since i woke up. it's just been here. i let my hand sit for a minute or to and then bring it back to my face. this is the precise moment i decide it's time to break the barrier. i walk over to the door, completely awake, and touch the door with the index finger of the other hand, about a foot above the doorknob, first. it's covered in frost, and i let this melt under my finger before turning the knob with the other hand. for some reason this "barrier" i've thought of in my head isn't gone yet, but i think this is absolutely because the house is truly empty, devoid of any living being but me. there isn't anyone else to disturb it. a simple hello would ruin the entire moment.
i walk into the kitchen, but i am not hungry. i simply want to feel the tile underneath my feet. i watch the fruit in the basket, and the view from the three small windows. the snow is very neat. i then take the cloths from the oven and cover the clocks in this room, but i did get a glance at the time. it is now 9:15 exactly.
i make myself go into the dining room. one cloth left in my hand, i glance at the one clock in this room. it hasn't moved for months. it sits firmly at 7:36 and from the angle i am standing at it feels as if it is deliberately pointing at me. i wrap the clock in this cloth and it falls from the wall. i leave it be. i go to the one window in this room, and try to kneel on the low windowsill. it hurts my knees and i get up. from here i go into the living room, which is considerably darker and has no clocks. this makes me lose a bit of my amazement with the quiet and i curse myself for it - but why give myself the blame? the only thing that ever comes from this room is noise. i stare at the couch, at the spot where my stepdad can always be found. he's gone. it is quiet. i press both hands on the cushion and it is crunching, like there's snow inside. i decide to sit. it isn't wet, so there is no snow. but as i sit in this spot i realize that it's getting warmer and warmer in the house.
i run to the thermostat in the dining room. the temperature had climbed to fifty-five degrees. my hair is soggy now as i sprint to the kitchen. the light in the kitchen is yellow, not white. i tear the cloth off of the first clock. 11:45. damn. my head whips around to better hear the sound - there's a car coming into the driveway, and christmas songs are playing already. i glance at the thermostat from across the room. seventy-one degrees. the doors to the car open, and i hear his voice. oh god. not this again. i leap into my room, kick the door shut, and lean my back against the door. it's still cool. i close my eyes as the door pops open, and my mother, brother, and stepdad waltz in with shopping bags and our dogs. the rustling of the plastic is obnoxious, as is the jingling of the bells on my dogs' collars. i climb back into bed, hoping they'll think i am still asleep, but the warmth depletes what was left of my alertness, my awakeness. i drift into a thick and uncomfortable sleep, and wake up with sweat dripping down my neck.
july, i welcome you with open arms.
