The snow fell relentlessly. It was the sort of blizzard when the muffled hum of snowplows was the sole sound and the streetlights looked like a scene from a CS Lewis story. I didn’t want to admit it, but on snowy nights like these, he was all I could think of. Did he dislike the cold? Was he living somewhere warmer? The last time I saw him, he was wearing a scarf. This solitary fact led me to conclusions such as: he did in fact enjoy the icy weather, choosing appropriate attire was something of value to him, and, of course, that green scarves made his eyes glow like emeralds.
I was astounded at all of the musings I could conjure based one just one small detail, but it made me feel weak in more ways than I wanted to admit.
Weakness. The lengths I went to to avoid it. Writing to escape it emotionally. Running to guard my body from it. Leaving people and places to plug up the cracks in my soul.
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