We take a walk in the late afternoon, dusk already settling in that way the day ends in the north, you remember winter in your bones and you wish you didn’t. Growing up in the Arctic was a trauma, you do not take pride in surviving it. The country air does you good. You return to closed laptops and silent telephones, to a large country kitchen and the peace of a holiday ahead. I know peace in my lungs only when my hands are busy making, it is no great secret, and you do not avoid it. He calls to tell you his soft, sweet stories and your lungs freeze again, how does that always happen? I want you to be happy, why do my lungs not remember I want you to be happy? I write her drunk messages of open wounds but she sleeps, everyone sleeps but the Christmas tree, what a benevolent silent partner it is. Take a deep breath.
There’s a nook in the attic that is yours and yours alone. There’s a country air and a brief break from reality, there’s a hundred miles between you and the city, there’s a month left of this terrible, terrible year, what will you make of the tempest at your fingertips? How will you make this year worth a place in your heart?
You have one day to remember your gratitudes.
You may have to try a little harder.
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