Living in the Permafrost
To say that I have been cold since I got here would be an understatement; so severe an understatement that it might be called a lie. It is not my intent to lie. My intent is merely to survive.
This man that I live with does not
believe in heat. I find it hard to believe that I came of my own free will. I find it harder to believe that I stay. It is
that cold.
Imagine frozen tundra.
Amidst the hustle and bustle of holiday preparations it is easy enough to forget that outer extremities are tingling. There is enough commotion to convince the brain that it should keep moving. There is enough coffee and sweets to keep the caffeine and sugar levels at record highs so as to fuel all of the extra movements necessary to keep from slowing down. There is enough noise to keep one from slipping into a warm cocoon of hypothermia. But then the day ends.
The nights are the worst. I wear more clothing to bed than I wear to go skiing. My bed is piled high with comforters and wool blankets. But none of this changes the fact that the room that I am sleeping in has no heat. At best it protects from the wind, and at that I even doubt its effectiveness. With every exhale I can see my breath. With every inhale my lungs creak. Those hairline fractures in my ribs grab my attention with every cold swallow. I pull the blankets over my head, curl into a fetal position, and wait for sleep. No such luck. Now that the day’s activity has ceased the cold creeps in under the blankets, first claiming my toes, then my ankles. After that my wrists begin to ache. I inhale deeply, holding my breath in till my stomach hurts; exhale. If I could just focus on breathing I think that it would distract from the pain, it hasn’t worked yet. My muscles all start to tense and the shaking begins. Every night I wait for the hours to tick by until dawn, when I can go and thaw in a shower, a hot, hot, hot, shower.
I am counting the days till I can fight my way out of this frozen tundra. Because living in the permafrost hurts.
a new theory
Love makes you weak. Love makes you entirely vulnerable in a way that is entirely contrary to everything that I feel. At least that is how love is portrayed in the movies. If that is love than I want nothing to do with it. I will live with my cat, drink chai at four in the afternoon with raspberry scones and dainty tea sets, travel to remote unknown places, and escape through my books until people can truthfully say that I am an old maid.
Shouldn't love build you up? Shouldn't you be stronger together? Why does that strength only come through irreversibly surrendering yourself to someone else? Why must there be so much vulnerability? I can see that openness in necessary for a relationship to succeed. I refuse. I don't even want to think about it. (yet I do) it is not that I fear commitment. Nope, this is about rejection.
Have you ever heard someone complain, "if they would only take the time to get to know me..." or "if only someone could understand me"? That is what I fear the most, that somebody would get it, that they would know me, that they would understand...and then they would walk away.
I hate sappy movies. At least for today. blah, what a waste of time I should have been reading.
half-breath
I slipped silently from the room: careful not to add or detract from the present discussion. I softly eased the door closed, holding the knob until the door rested in the jam. I then slowly released the latch, allowing the click to go entirely unnoticed by the others.
I knelt down on the floor, my knees cracked on the hard wood. I reached under the bed but I couldn’t find it. I flipped up the bed skirt, which revealed to me only darkness and vague shapes, or impressions of shapes. I moved to my stomach so that I could add more length to my reach. I know that I shoved it right here. My fingers grazed the smooth box. A smile flickered around my face. I tipped the corner enough to get a firm grip and pull that box from its hiding place.
It had been too long since I had recovered my treasure. I sat back on my heels admiring its polished features for a moment. The box was simple and smooth. A deep mahogany. It was soft to touch. I ran my hand across the lid removing a fine powder of dust, revealing its rich color. The latch and lock on the front were also plain but strong. The key was hidden in a small notch at the back of the box; my fingers found it without my eyes.
This box contains the special things, my gifts to them, those that I love. These gifts are to be delivered on the day that I die. It’s simple really. Yet I know that they will treasure the box and its contents as I do. Letters calligraphied, detailing all that I long to say but for which I cannot find the words. Embossed with good intent. Colored with love. Each card contains a moment, perfectly described, perfectly preserved for their memory, and for mine. Each moment holds a wish, a thought, a prayer unuttered in this life, withheld from one so dear. Each wish and thought and prayer are told completely with all honesty and spoken in love. This is not all that I ever wanted to say rather it is all that I wanted them to know. When my life is ended this box holds my final words. You must know how I loved you. These cards are stacked and delicately wrapped with red ribbon. The ribbons are their names. To: Mom. To: Dad. To: Christine. To: Whitney. To: Skyler. To: Scot. To: Spencer. To: Simon. To: Jenny. To: Katy. To: Amy. To: Amanda. To: Kim. To: Lauren. To: Nikki. To: Joy. To: Andrew. To: Jeremiah. To: William. To: Jordan
I inscribe the next card, bundle it with the others, tucked beneath its ribbon. Return the box to hiding. I slip back into my seat unnoticed, I barely breathe.
"Trisha, did you want to say something?"
"No."
"You did that half-breath thing, like you had something to say."
I shake my head.
"You sure?"
I move the topic along, all the while thinking of the cards, so carefully sorted, so painstakingly written, so purposefully addressed, that will never be delivered. Because I catch my breath. Because I withhold my thoughts. Because there is no box.
