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The year I went to high school (which was in the 10th grade--in Fort Smith, students in the ninth grade were in their last year of junior high) my family moved to Kinkead Avenue, to a house that is no longer there.It was a fixer-upper, with most of the fixing-upping to be done on the second floor, which had two bedrooms and a bathroom, which were generally unfinished. Except for some drywall, we never really got around to the fixing.
My sister and I occupied the upstairs, except during the winter, when my sister slept downstairs, where the heat was. I stayed upstairs. I enjoyed the ability to separate from others on occasion, so being upstairs worked for me. The only real problem with my situation was that the upstairs bathroom did not work, and I was too lazy to go downstairs to use the restroom (then, as now, I drank a large quantity of soda, so the need to flow happened often). That problem was solved by opening my window and stepping onto the roof over my parents’ bedroom and wetting the bushes below. There were neighbors behind us, only partially blocked by a lattice of tree branches, but it never crossed my mind at the time that an inopportune sighting might have earned me a conversation with officers of the law.
During cold winter nights I was not able to use such methods, as the drop in temperature caused my window to freeze over. The trade-off was worth it to me. Cold winter nights meant burrowing under multiple blankets, my breath curling like a low fire, and the moon’s reflection shattered on the iced window. It seemed the world was naught but cold and silence, as if the ice had cut off the noise from the outside world. It seemed there, in my room, in that time between sliding under the blankets and the moment sleep took me, that the world had not stopped, but had slowed down--that everything was in slow motion.
Tonight snow blankets my yard. I walked outside, feeling the slight crackle as I did so. It’s a wondrous thing (at least until I have to drive in it), but to me, it is not Winter. Winter will always be that reflection of the moon on the iced window as I huddle under my covers, the same way that Spring will always be walking past the cemetery on Greenwood Avenue as a slight breeze caresses me, the same way that Summer will always be going to the store in Indian Rocks Beach, my skin already peeling. And Autumn...well, that is the fake mummy being pushed off the roof on Halloween; I don’t want to talk about--it took me a while to get on good terms with Fall.
My sister and I occupied the upstairs, except during the winter, when my sister slept downstairs, where the heat was. I stayed upstairs. I enjoyed the ability to separate from others on occasion, so being upstairs worked for me. The only real problem with my situation was that the upstairs bathroom did not work, and I was too lazy to go downstairs to use the restroom (then, as now, I drank a large quantity of soda, so the need to flow happened often). That problem was solved by opening my window and stepping onto the roof over my parents’ bedroom and wetting the bushes below. There were neighbors behind us, only partially blocked by a lattice of tree branches, but it never crossed my mind at the time that an inopportune sighting might have earned me a conversation with officers of the law.
During cold winter nights I was not able to use such methods, as the drop in temperature caused my window to freeze over. The trade-off was worth it to me. Cold winter nights meant burrowing under multiple blankets, my breath curling like a low fire, and the moon’s reflection shattered on the iced window. It seemed the world was naught but cold and silence, as if the ice had cut off the noise from the outside world. It seemed there, in my room, in that time between sliding under the blankets and the moment sleep took me, that the world had not stopped, but had slowed down--that everything was in slow motion.
Tonight snow blankets my yard. I walked outside, feeling the slight crackle as I did so. It’s a wondrous thing (at least until I have to drive in it), but to me, it is not Winter. Winter will always be that reflection of the moon on the iced window as I huddle under my covers, the same way that Spring will always be walking past the cemetery on Greenwood Avenue as a slight breeze caresses me, the same way that Summer will always be going to the store in Indian Rocks Beach, my skin already peeling. And Autumn...well, that is the fake mummy being pushed off the roof on Halloween; I don’t want to talk about--it took me a while to get on good terms with Fall.
