Winter is here. The sun was shining but the snow was still falling. It was a quiet walk down the road. For the most part, it was just me on a stilled Sunday, crunching the frozen snow beneath my boots. Even with headphones in, I could still feel the silence wrap around me. I never remember it being so peaceful in my life. It reminded me of a time that was just as silent, but a different kind of silence.
I woke up to a house that murmured with it’s joints moving in the blizzard, but all else was slumbering. It was like being a mouse in a sleeping house. While I always found happiness in solace, I found this moment to be disheartening. I was alone during the holidays in a home that wasn’t my own. I remember sitting in a kitchen on borrowed furniture, the cold seeping not only in the temperatures but in the colors. Whoever painted the house choose a palette of cold grays, blues, and whites. It felt less like a home and more like a shack; the cold was touching me so. Even though it was quiet, my mind tittered with discontent.
I was sitting in my car, trying to stay warm, staring at the clock and praying it hurried. I tried not to leave the car on because I was already broke as it is. It was New Years and everything was closed. While I waited patiently for my next homesteading stop, I wished that the library was open. In the back of my head, I wished that I had friends. Although the town was sleeping in it’s post-holiday daze, I was in my car with icy thoughts and a menacing abandonment.
I turned back home, warm in my fuzzy white jacket and doubled pants. The walk was comforting and the sun warmed my soul. I stepped in the comfort of my log cabin and stripped down. A hot shower and blankets finished the search for happiness. I laid in bed, feeling the silence seep from outside into my bedroom with fluffy snowflakes. This time, my heart was glad and my mind was dull. I let the warmth take me into reflection in a life that was once my own, but ceased to only be edge-less, lukewarm aches.