Blog #2

Walk

It’s 7am and Bayberry is silent except for the periodic rush of wind. The clouds are threatening a snowstorm and I take the chance that I’ll be back home before it begins. My mind and body ache as I begin my walk. I watch small snowflakes floating from the clouds, down to the ground, forming a thin mist. Tiny ice pellets caress my face and feel pleasantly cool on my cheeks.

I tilt my head skyward and breath deeply. I think of his quiet strength. The patient way he taught me, gradually earning my friendship and trust. I loved the melody of his voice and how it vibrated in my ears. I remember the feel of his arm around my shoulders calming and comforting me.

On the street lies a thin layer of ice. I watch the ground as I walk. My boots only mark the tough surface once every few steps. The rhythmic crunching echoes in my ears. My breathing quickens as I trudge up the steep part of Bayberry Drive.

Snow blurs my vision and I remember his smile. It could make me happy on the worst day. His eyes, warm and bright, saw through to my soul. We didn't need words to communicate: a look, a smirk, the raise of an eyebrow, a turn of the head, a rub of our arms or a nod, all worked better.

I come to the first intersection of Bayberry and notice the snow sticking to the stop sign. I look around and realize it’s gluing itself to every surface it passes. The wind has picked up and the snow is blowing parallel to the ground. This once quiet snowfall has become an all out storm. Shards of ice are slapping my face, sharp and stinging until my nose, lips and cheeks are numb. I breathe into my scarf and the moist air warms my face.

This storm snuck up on me, like my feelings for him. One moment I was working by his side, laughing at something silly he did, the next I was catching my breath because I recognized the look in his eyes. I should have said the words he left floating between us or I should have hidden, like the animals who live on Bayberry, who are absent as this storm blankets their home. The words accumulated along with my feelings for him, like this snow: silent, slow and steady.

I push forward, against the wind, down a hill, walking as fast as I can to get back home. I wagered against the weather today and lost. I laugh and think of the times I pushed against him, silently begging him to react, because I was tired of his constant composure. His anger was explosive when provoked by others, but he never directed his ire at me. I’d like to say I trod lightly those days, but that’d be a lie. I wanted the emotion in his eyes to burst forth. I wanted to feel it wash over me.

The next bend in the road has me walking up a slight grade and my pace slows. I can barely see my gloved hands through the precipitation. My walk has become a march and my footfalls are louder. As I near my house, I notice the changes thirty minutes makes in the life of a snowstorm. Bayberry is covered with a thick layer of snow and ice. I imagine my heart is also covered this way. Today I can hear it beating in my ears, muffled but lingering, like his voice in my dreams.

Entry #1 - My Frozen Refuge

Thursday January 15, 2015

9:00 am

9°F

Snow and ice cover Bayberry Drive. I crunch my way to the end of the driveway with my dog, Romy, bouncing along at my side. Her small body disappearing for a moment into the snow, before emerging, ears first, hers paws an inch above the snow for a flash and back down. We go along this way until we reach the street. Romy could choose to walk on the snow-cleared driveway, but she prefers to play in the snow of the boarding yard.

Bayberry Drive is a gradually steep and constantly curving lane. It is nestled behind state route 46 in a development that was built in the 1970’s. The homes on Bayberry are priced from modest to ridiculous. It’s a safe and friendly neighborhood. Residents are outside at all hours of the day (and night): grass cutting, snow shoveling, dog walking, bike riding, walking, sitting on the porch swing or around a fire pit.

This morning, the sky is a cloudless, crisp, cerulean blue. The sun is bright and glinting off the snow. It's quiet this time of day. I hear wind chimes moving in the bitter cold. Periodically, I hear a car pass on SR46. Five minutes into our walk I finally spot some birds. They’re calling from high up in a tree. Their fluttering wings and melodious chirping are a welcome break in the silent morning.

I return home and loose Romy to a sun-filled spot on the ottoman. I go to the backyard and look at, what is usually, my writing refuge. The place I go to escape, read, dream and create. The groundhog who lives under the deck, the woodpecker who visits daily, the blue jays, robins, sparrows, cardinals and the dozens of squirrels who live in the trees have accepted my prescience. Today, and for the last few weeks, my backyard been masked by over six inches of snow. The thick white cover is like a security blanket hiding it from view.

When I was a toddler I had a blanket. I carried it with me everywhere. Though I can’t remember why, I imagine it’s because it helped me feel safe. Over the last several years, I haven’t felt secure. The sense I had that “everything’s going to be all right and work itself out” left me in 2010 and I’ve been searching for it since. I searched here first and came away empty. Then I ventured north to Meadville and was pulled back again. Most recently, I risked everything and went south to Pittsburgh, where I lost again. I’ve found only vulnerability and sadness in the other places. I would give anything (and have given everything) to be snug and happy (feel protected and cherished) where I am. Instead, I feel lost and out of place – everywhere but my backyard.