Snow stings colour into cheeks flushed from the exertion of morning routine. Night clings, its charcoal breath glowing in the refracted paleness of fresh snow which crunches beneath my boots. Despite the arctic breath of winter which exhales stinging sleet against exposed flesh, I breathe deep and relish the nip as frigid air slashes into my lungs reminding me I am alive.
Memories. Random thoughts of time and remembrances of past times of good and bad. Odd how certain tastes, smells, visions trigger them. Many of mine, oddly, are winter memories.
Like a mantra, my mind revisits certain scenes of my youth. I close my eyes and raise my face to the snow which spills down in a glittering rainbow of cold light which shatters against my face and arches into the roiling storm of wind to be whipped up again into the grumbling dark sky.
A quiet moment on a pristine Maritime night when the snow lay deep and untouched and the sound of our boots in the frosted hushed midnight hour created such a painfully poignant sense of our isolation in a world of our own that to this day, I remember his hand in mine, the warmth of his breath against the cold of my cheek, then his tongue, hot and fervid against my mouth. I remember the feel of the cold clapboard of the house against my back as he burrowed beneath the tattered, ratty fur of my ancient, Salvation Army coat, his fingers cool at my waist, making me shiver. Then his cool palm against the aching, swollen tip of my warm breast, cupping and squeezing the soft, firm flesh, pulling the aching need from between my trembling thighs, his body against mine, his breath hot and moist and his teeth against my neck ….
We were young then, he and I, with all the complicated, interwoven threads of our lives still to be lived yet already with a twisted skein of memories and experiences already shared, reaching back into a past unravelling into thought and belief.
Life is not static. It is not silent nor simplistic. The apparent sameness of days which roll one into another and leach away the spontaneity of thought and movement are an illusion for each moment of time which ticks away the reality of existence and nibbles another second from my mortality are unique and in their static brilliance, endless. Each brings with it a drop of possibility and pushes its nanosecond of reality into the weave of what becomes the now.
I find it curious, affirming even, to see that others struggle too with the tumbling stream of time and the vistas which each twist brings to our wondering eyes.
The simple reality is that we cannot put ourselves nor others into motionless moments of existence and expect those moments to be always. The nature of life itself is change, endlessly compromised and created second by second, impacted and shaped into uniqueness by our own experiences and the impact of our lives with others in this odd world in which we exist.
Which is always why I found it so questionable when I saw absolute statements being made. When people created chess pieces out of the throbbing, complicated reality of a human being and thought determination and desire and hope would make that piece move in the direction desired.
So many times over the years have my hard-won belief systems been shattered, leaving me disillusioned and broken among the detritus of broken dreams. Yet somehow, you pick yourself up and painfully piece together the remnants of thought and emotion and as the glue hardens, the essence of the individual sparks new possibilities and hope and in the quintessential nature of the human beast, slowly moves forward yet again.
The reality is that there are no absolutes in this world; there are NO promises that can’t be broken nor dreams that can’t be destroyed. Perfect relationships do not exist and perfect people are an illusion and to my way of thinking, an abomination.
My eyes sting as the arctic wind licks hurt into their green depths. I release the leashes and the dogs bound up the steps to the door, gambolling and prancing and nipping each other’s flanks. I stand in the gloaming dark of the early morning and slowly unzip my coat. My hand goes to my waist and feels the soft flesh of my belly then pushes up and under the wire of my bra until I cup the hot warmth of my breast and staring out into the glittering river of snow, rivulets of snow streaming from a roiling sky. I feel my flesh in the cool of my palm and watch as the pale tip reddens then contracts into a hot aching need and remember other nights and sighing, release my flesh and turn and follow the dogs into the warmth of the house and to him.