The browned maples are nearly bare and our old three -story Victorian protects us little from the dropping temperatures outside. Wrapped in blankets and an insulated vest, I'm surrounded by the scent of candles and Good Earth tea. Voices of friends and housemates are muffled by the hardwood door that separates me from the rest. It's October and I've witness the first few snowflakes of what seems to be an eternal winter.
As the dark seeps into my bedroom I feel like a 21st century Josephine March, attempting to legitimize my internal dialogue by writing down countless lines of seemingly story-less plot. Instead of sitting in silence, as I imagine Jo would have done, my keystrokes follow the rhythms of orchestral reels and hornpipes. If I could choose, I would spend my life in such small moments. Where beautifully executed crescendos make my heart beat faster, where storybook endings don't first require heartache, and where there's just enough chill in the air to remind me of the pleasure there is in warmth.
written October 28th, 2008