We’ve locked ourselves into an imaginary kitchen.
This is the kind of cold that makes breathing impossible. It’s the kind of cold that with arms reaches into down into the lungs and constricts the windpipes in a clean and holy freezing. A cold that within minutes causes the assassination of limbs just as the coughing sets in. Frostbite in its purest, deadliest form.
Will your dead fingers and toes will forgive you?
But, we are home inside the subzero temperatures. It’s the novel to our plotline. The skeletal structure to our empty conversations. My organic curiosity to your love of being the answers. My confusion to your occasional need to talk to me like a child and a long-lost lover in the same sentence. The midnight table for the sliced, orange moon.
This is the cold that sequesters us and changes us. The previous enemy that became a loyal friend in a hospital room. A complete stranger a confidant. Former and formal friends turned messengers bearing omens. The people I’ve always regarded as just faces in my life a turn into the what-ifs, the have-beens, the could-bes, the wishes, the transforming, the becoming.
It all leads up to this moment. We’ve locked ourselves into an imaginary kitchen of an imaginary house. We’ve got blankets, coffee, and warm pastries. And we’ll talk about anything but the cold.
Photo credit: Flickr / Evil Erin