Le main du hiver

The winter is over. An end to the frightful and constant reminders of death. This place, in the gray and in the cold, is not my home. It will be my home soon enough. For most of the year, this place is my home and my happiness is in the blue and the orange, the warmth and the eventual Autumn colors. When the tinsel fades after New Year's, the hand of winter takes hold with a grim, icy chill. The dooming sadness ripples with the goosebumps and an irrational panic tells me that there is no escape from the death that surrounds me, and that soon it will be me. Flecks of lights sprinkled among the homes buried in the frost, holding against the wind, signal that I am not all that remains in the dismal season, but it is hopeless. It will soon be them, too. I had hoped to record my accounts during the sub-zero gloom, but it, too, was hopeless. There is only layers of clothing, fear for the outside, and a shaking panic for the inside. Speechless and terrified. There is nothing and this place is not my home. The hand of winter grips tighter.

Autumn is the final hoorah. The summer slows down -- and what a summer it was. Autumn brings relief from the heat and the endless nights. The colors and festivals are spectacular. The cold is inching in. There is a festive moment in the arrival of the cold, bracing for the darkness to come. The cold is decorated with colorful lights, music, and cheerful spirits, and the snow and the frost has a celebratory purpose. But soon, the bottles are empty, the presents are opened, the New Year ball drops, the neighbors go home, and the merriment burns out. The city rips off the lights that bore joy, leaving only what still clings to the houses. The once festive lights are buried in the rubble of the blizzards. The logs burn in the fire, but they can only burn for so long. Huddled with remaining hope by the fire, burning Netflix seasons with the logs. They, too, can only last so long. It is the only thing that helps. Distract. Don't look outside. Remember palm trees and blue skies. It is hopeless. The wind is the terrifying howls of a psychiatric ward hallway, unnerving, maddening, disturbing. You are not going anywhere. Trapped with the panic and the madness. The gloom consumes the sky and the frost consumes the home, and the howls consume the sanity. Panic and fear. Try to hold on.

The room is getting smaller. The horizon is stretching farther. The isolation is different this time around. No one can hear me. No one knows I am here. The days are too short for anyone to look and no one can. The gloom has consumed the others. I want to come out of this. I wait to see if the others will come out of this. No one comes out for days, even weeks. The sun is fleeting and time is scarce. The hand of winter grips tighter and I cannot breathe. I am changing in the darkness and I am scared. I fight to keep my eyes open under the blanket of cold. I fight for the fear of never opening my eyes again. I want to feel the sun again. I want to go home. You can only laugh to yourself for so long. The fire dwindles and my eyes are heavy. My eyes close and I remember sunsets over mountains....

I slept. I was never so tired from sleeping so much. I cannot recall the months of routines I sleepwalked through. During the calm, I made efforts to emerge. The images were despairing. The howling was more maddening when it touched you, bit you. The frozen catacombs lining my street. I wanted the others to emerge. I could not go looking for them. I knew better to stay close. The sky spoke of more to come. It was then that I knew why no one looked for me. The sun visits briefly, wounded, and there is still more to come. Inside the dusty mausoleum, I wait for more to come. Throw more into the fire. Do you wish to continue watching? Click yes. Wait for the relaxation to dissolve in the water. Soon it starts all over again. The cycle of madness renews and, one night, I dared to open the upstairs curtains in the master bedroom, pacing the floor in my strangling panic, watching a couple of bunnies scramble in the flurries. The flurries were swirling and a complete white-out engulfed the community. The bunnies scrambled as I paced. They were as lost as I. I hoped we would see each other again in the spring. I always feed the birds and bunnies in the spring. I just wanted to make it there. It lasts forever here. It is frightening and it is depressing and it is draining. I just want to go home. This place is not my home. I am scared and I am tired. Here it comes again. I will not make it. A day will come if I do make it. Everything falls apart. The walls are crumbling and the appliances are dying and I did the best I could....

A day came when it was not-so-suddenly over. The worst was over, gradually, but an apprehension still hung in the air. The hand of winter still dangled in the clouds, rolling its fingers slowly. The birds and the bunnies were as reluctant as I. I wanted to untie the patio furniture and live again. I wanted to lay out the feed and I wanted my life back. I wanted California. The dangers of the west were nothing compared to the isolated fear I experienced here. Cold gloomy days turned into gloomy rainy days. Gloomy rainy days produced patches of sun. Patches of sun showed days of warmth with chances of showers. Sometimes the showers never showed and the bunnies and the birds showed instead. I saw the bunnies. They made it. I made it. They stayed with me. There will be light again. I do not want to do it again. I cannot do it again. I will have to do it again. I am strong. The hand of winter is strong. I will have to be ready. I will live in the short months of sunshine and laughter. It will be my home again. The hand of winter rests before snatching my home again. The hand of winter rests and waits. The hand of winter is silent and crippling. The hand of winter is real.