wintry reverie

There is something about knowing that Christmastime is drawing closer that makes everything infinitely better. It is as if the sparkling lights and roaring fires have magic over all the monstrosities present in your life. There is nothing as restorative as huddling under blankets and near vents with stacks of beloved books. Escaping winter’s bite with steaming cups of cocoa. I’ve been drinking ungodly amounts of cocoa lately and all of it in festive Holiday mugs. All whilst desecrating the virgin pages of my journal with sketches of mermaids and sonnets that shall never be finished. I am a solitary creature, and even more so when nighttime begins to fall earlier than it did the day before. During these interludes, I am utterly content to be surrounded by nothing but my music, my literature, and dozens of creative ventures that are crying to be conquered.

This Christmas season I dedicate myself to be a Narnian wholly. I shall intently pray for snow, bundle up for all occasions, light too many candles, and befriend pleasant strangers. In fact, I made a new acquaintance the other night when I went to see a play by myself. He told me all sorts of things I never would have known by just looking at him. I will try to not just look from this moment on.

What are your favorite Christmas movies? Mine are Little Women, A Muppet Christmas Carol, Elf, White Christmas, and The Lion, the Witch, and The Wardrobe. I’m sure I am forgetting some. This truly is the most darling time of year.

clair de lune

When the time becomes four parallel lines, I make a point to close my eyes and make a wish. It may be nothing more than a hopeless pagan ritual, but the release of all my irrational yearnings is nothing short of liberating. Last evening, as I drove under the foggy November sky, I saw the clock turn into dual elevens and I swiftly wished for the moon. It had looked perfectly luminescent from where I sat, a beacon of light in the starless void. As I drifted off to sleep later in the night, either by fate or the hand of God, I dreamt that my futile wish had come true.

I was sitting on the rooftop with braided hair and an ivory nightdress when the unexpected happened. Two angels, equal in both beauty and reverence, flew in from space with my grand present folded into their wings. Please tell us, they whispered in unison. What will you do with our friend, the moon, now that she is yours to keep? I thought about this for some time as they looked on. Well, I began. I suppose it would be awfully selfish to keep such a sacred gift to myself.

So I ordered them to cut the moon in two and I gave a half to you. A token for you to remember me by, I wrote in cursive scrawl on the accompanying card. The angels were so moved by my romantic little notion that they decided to take the gesture even further. They murmured an enchantment over my newly acquired satellite in hushed tones, and then turned to me in explanation when they were finished.

Whenever you speak softly into your piece of moon, they told me. He will hear it.
And the same for him? I asked.
The same for him.

I wept and kissed the feet of the two celestial messengers. They had cast a spell so tender that I was sure the constellations themselves were stirred by it. Inside, I too leapt for joy at the thought of communing with you through our lunar halves. How would it be possible for you not to love me now that I offered such a virtuous union?

In my waking life, do not be surprised if you catch me glancing up wistfully towards the moon. I’m simply mourning the departure of a dream so heavenly that it couldn’t last in the mind of one so tragically bound to earth.

the skull and its defender

Ran into your father today.

It made me think about all those memories ago when you were the stranger nestled in my shoulder. They all said, “If I were you, I wouldn’t trust him” but I did anyway. You pierced through bone and marrow and shot shivers down my spine. I’d like to think I did the same to you. I often imagined that when our blue eyes met and harmonized it brought a smile to God’s face. But I was young, and spent the rest of the time staring at my ankles. And you got scared or maybe bored, stopped reciting all that sappy prose you thought I’d find romantic. Still, I fantasized about our children. If I got chilly in dreamland, you were always there to extend some make-believe body heat.

“Daughter, you’ll grow thin on these backwards glances and restless grins,” the vicar said with true affect. “A love poem is the same as a death ballad, you’ll kill yourself from deep within.”

I agreed, and promised to kick the habit. Except nostalgia was a harder drug than I expected, and I found no rehabilitation center that would cure me. This little bird named The Recollection of You flew into my mind's eye and made quite the nest. All my better qualities infiltrated the area with bow and quiver to try and kill the creature but he remained. That is to say, you remain. After all these changing seasons, and slow weeks that turn to years, there are still shadows of you that send my heart into a bittersweet palpation without proper warning.

The grey clouds migrate in the same direction, as if they were a flock of Beluga whales caught in the sky. They move on. Time continues. The young grow old, and the old pass away. Yet I am stuck in a moment that never ends. The only thing that reassures me of my own existence is the sweet inhale and exhale of breath.

Your father told me to stop by and say hello sometime, but I don’t think I’ll be able to bring myself to. I would hate for you to find me so unchanged, and so in remembrance.