A Place Called Winter.

01

Lemon and cinnamon; the mixture of sour sweet, the smell of my childhood. It radiated from my Aunt's furniture which was neatly tucked in the corners, plates full of food sprawled across the surface; sandwiches, crackers, cheese; the typical funeral food. Extravagant enough to feed to guests yet bland enough to mark a dejected event.

And my mother's suicide was what the town people described as a ' gloomy incident '.

Less than twenty-four hours ago, I had been sitting in a cramped bus seat, the fabric covering it enveloped in holes. The chubby man beside me had been eating family sized packets of crisps, the crumbs spilling onto my shoulder and lap. But I had barely noticed.

My mind was too conflicted by the news of my estranged mother's death.

After getting the letter, I was hit with an emotion, though I wasn't quite sure what it was. I had spent half of my life resenting my mother for abandoning me at the ripe age of six years old, cast off to make my own way around the world before I'd even lost all my milk teeth. But there was a feeling. No matter how much I wanted to hate my parents, I couldn't help but feel as if I'd lost something. As if I really, truly was alone.

I was the only person left on the bus when it pulled up into Winter Grove's bus station. The moment I stepped out of the vehicle, the cold air came to greet me, sending small stabs up my bare arms.

"Good luck, Kid." The bus driver had said to me before closing the doors and driving off through the ice latent streets.

Sitting here now, at my mother's funeral reception in a scratchy black dress, surrounded by people who came to 'mourn' over Pepper Potts' death, I had decided that I needed a lot more than a pitiful glance from a bus driver and a 'good luck, kid' to bring me any luck.

"Ellen," my Aunt, Donna, a plump woman with rosy cheeks and a take-no-shit persona, approached my sitting place, "have you eaten?"

"No, not yet." I replied, my voice more scratchy than I had expected.

"Go get some sandwiches. I can make you soup if you want? We have a lot o-"

"Thanks, Donna but I'm fine. Really."

Donna placed her hands on her round hips giving me a pointed look. "Here now, young lady, you have barely eaten since you stepped foot in this town and I will not have my favourite niece turn into a skeleton on my watch."

"I'm your only niece."

"Exactly! So I wouldn't want my only niece to starve to death." She wiped her forehead with the back of her hand. "Besides after this reception I ain't planning another funeral. So eat." Donna tilted her head, gesturing at the table filled with food before walking away.

Donna was a strong character. She'd rather take care of everyone else than even think about how she was feeling. Perhaps it was a courageous act. Or perhaps it was cowardly for her to bury herself in other people's worries so she wouldn't have to confront the fact that her younger sister had killed herself.

I stood and walked toward the table, my muscles reacting quicker than my brain, which ached for sleep. I picked up a white bread sandwich, the ham peaking from between the crusts.

"Yes, by her family's cabin, can you believe?" A group of older women stood, huddled together beside me, each sipping tea, their hair and makeup well done. "Just jumped into the lake, hit her head and killed herself, the poor crater. But I do suppose it must be hard living alone at the age of, what was it again, Shirley?"

"Forty-four."

"But didn't she have a child? A daughter wasn't it?"

"Yes, but she sent her away to the city  when the child was small. What kind of a mother could do that to her own child?"

That's what I wanted to know.

After hearing enough of the women's gossiping, I neglected the food tray and walked outside. I couldn't handle the stuffiness, stares and whispers in the house anymore. As soon as I stepped onto the back garden, I could feel the cold air seeping through my lungs. I walked toward the swing set in the middle of the lawn, my feet crunching through the snow.

I tried to warm my numbing hands by putting them into my pockets only to remember I'm wearing a dress. I shuddered at the thought.

Sitting on the ice covered swing, I began to rock back and forth slowly, taking in the quietness, the peacefulness, of everything. Mountains surrounded the small town, the rocky peaks hiding in the thick fog. It was as if I was trapped in a bowl of mountains. And there was no escape.

I used to come here to play with my cousin, David, but he had changed in the past eleven years. The six year old boy with the gap teeth who liked to wake up early to go fishing (but always ended up putting his catch back in the water), had become a seventeen year old jock who wore his letterman jacket like a crown.

I don't remember much of this town, or of my family here. It's as if I came here in a dream. A dream that I was slowly forgetting. A dream that was slowly fading.

And now, I wish I could wake up from it.