Winter

That year, winter crept up on her early, stealing away time and light like a thief.  For two weeks she did not leave the bed except to binge on candy her grandfather had sent for Halloween, part of a care package he’d sent along with a card: I’m so proud of you. She hid it away in a drawer.

She sank down deep into a dark haze of restless sleep, chocolate and homesickness.  The Vermont blizzards arrived at Thanksgiving, leaving her unable to move even if she’d wanted to. She slept through most of the cold, dark days, her muscles growing weak with disuse as she lay inside her cocoon, morphing into something she feared would be too terrible to name.

But one night, high on sugar, she lay awake, eyes peeled open.  Moonlight trickled into her room, bathing her softly.  She raised up her arm in the darkness, staring in wonder at the way her skin shimmered and glowed, staring as though she’d never seen herself before.  Slipping from the bed, she threw a heavy coat over her thin pajamas, the same ones she’d been wearing for two weeks.  She pulled on her boots in the moonlight, then her hat and gloves.  Silently, she left the dark room behind, her feet growing surer with every step.

Cold night air greeted her lungs, its freshness a shock to her system.  The snow crunched beneath her feet as she walked away from the building, out into a dark, frozen field.  Breath came in long, slow exhalations, leaving warm steam on the cold air.  She was taken aback at her own warmth, her own life force.  Something caught under her feet in the snow; a log, an old, dead piece of wood cut loose from a living tree, a tree that perhaps still stood somewhere not far off, waiting for spring.  She fell to her knees and wept.  Moonlight washed over her, cleansing her of the darkness.  She turned her face up to the sky.  A billion stars looked back at her, the eyes of the Universe whispering, Yes.  Yes.  You are alive, and we are watching over you, always.