Lauren Plunkett - Winter Wonderland
Seriously, could it get any colder?! I prefer not to go outside from November through March in this frozen northland but I must. I arrive at work, stuffed into my heavy jacket like a Christmas box sent from Grandma. I peel off jacket number one to allow four inches of impenetrable cotton and Lycra to breathe. My look today is hardly office attire unless clocking in somewhere in the Himalayas but do I care? Not today, winter. Thankfully, my office is tucked away from the majority of the inhabitants in this shared space of white walls.
Some may say that the view from my fourth-floor office window is Minnesota lovely if gazing through sideways sleet upon leafless trees and salt covered side-streets that sideline the highway, is your thing. My entertainment today will be the sound of kissing bumpers and I’m confident the screeching will begin soon. First comes brakes, then comes smashing, then comes the lanes of traffic parked in an orderly fashion. How delightful. I chuckle realizing there’s a worse place be.
In winter, just when you think your dues have been paid a costly opportunity comes knocking uninvited, like Uncle Eddie. I choked my chuckle back remembering that last year a driver poorly attempted to parallel park and rammed my car so hard it was lifted from the street. Right now, the last thing I need is someone tossing salt into my already sour mood. Snap out of it! Watch the sleet, take off a layer, and sit down.
I gaze longingly outside my office window hoping the scene will miraculously change into a perfect picture of sparkling sunshine that makes me sweat just looking at it. I want to feel the sun burning my skin and hot on my wavy hair. When I close my eyes I can feel a hot ray on my face and catch a waft of sweet coconut oil. My heart knows that paradise can be found in a shot of vitamin D chased with a gin and tonic. For just a few blissful seconds I’m taken away from this frigid desk where I’m frozen in thought. I’m one layer less and thawed out now but my winter boots are buried in the sand.
The sands of time say wake up from your daydream and be an adult. You worked hard to sit at this desk and you better learn to love it. I’ve already whimpered away the entire morning but lo and behold excitement has come my way. LUNCH!
It’s time to walk it off and wake up my hands and feet from self-pity and lack of circulation. The temperature outside is sub-zero but the feeling inside this office is as cold and dark as a starless night’s sky in the dead of winter. My headphones have been fixed to my ears all day to protect the innocent victims I will make if provoked to speak. Therefore, I put pen to paper and begin to furiously write, which becomes the solution to keeping my big trap shut.
I write because I’m angry with what I cannot control. The sleet, the freeze, this office of discontent. I wish I could make this my happy place but I am but a single snowflake melting on the surface. There may as well be smoke and flames coming off my pen as I write as fast as possible to keep up with my mind firing anger-bombs that cannot be allowed to escape my lips.
We, mortals, cannot control the passing of time and the patterns of weather. Both of these things are getting the best of me at the moment so I write to take control of my emotions. I thank these crisp blank pages that allow me to purge words that don’t have meaning. I don’t understand why I have to write but I do it and it’s right and true. I have so much to say but where do I put all my words and who on earth would want to read them?
Somewhere out there beneath the pale moonlight another person that’s as miserable as I am might be writing to escape, just like I am. Maybe they write to save themselves from being judged or misunderstood. Maybe one day we’ll read each other’s words and be bound by a hatred of sleet and love of heat.
The lunch buzz has worn off and time has melted away. The temperature has dropped a few more degrees and the sleet has turned to ice. I bundle my layers, belt my heavy jacket, cover my face so just my eyes show and prepare to face my four block walk on a snowy sidewalk. The sun never came, but at least it’s happy hour and I have several freshly inked pages to show for a productive day on the job.
Laura Di Franco
“Come with me,” I pleaded, “It will be fun.”
“Not my thing,” he said. And the conversation ended. I sat on my unmade bed with the faded white down comforter half on and half off me and frowned. The rejection sat in the middle of my chest, like it had for decades. I brought my palm up to rub out the pain.
Fuck this, I thought, I’m not doing this again. I’m not going to let someone else’s no mean so much this time.
But it did. I did, let it mean something. I let it mean I was unworthy and unlovable. Then I remembered who I was and jumped off the bed, slid my new Ugg slippers the kids gave me for Christmas over my cold toes and headed down the hallway to my refuge.
The notebook was where I left it last, sitting on the special shelf in the kitchen I’d created for my collection; all different colors, shapes and sizes, some with sparkles and some more bland. I grabbed at the last one I’d started writing in and shuffled for a blank page, excited, ready to heal something.
My breath was deep and slow and relief fell through my chest and arms deep into my heart. My soul breathed with me and the words came:
I think I was once
so used to
the sadness and pain of rejection
I didn’t notice how tightly
the shrink-wrap molded
into the crevices of my heart.
Like a straight jacket
if you wear it too long
you learn to breathe shallowly
You figure out how to live
with the restrictions.
I finally allowed myself to feel
the crushing pressure,
smell the charred flesh,
notice my soul gasping
under the clench.
Today I know it will never be something
I give myself permission to get used to again.
But I had to feel it to enjoy that power.
I had to recognize the subtle
so I could know the slightest attempt
at a future attack
and swiftly step up to love myself
the light of my own essence
would shine on rejection
and the truth would show through…
And I’ve always been that.
I titled my poem I’ve Always Been That. Many of my poems seem to end with the title. There’s something I like about that. A feeling it gives me. The tightness in me eases. The bigger thing takes over and it knows. The relief is palpable. The poem heals me.
I can hear him in the hallway bedroom. The door is closed. I slowly turn the handle, open the door a crack and poke just my head in to find him hypnotized by the game on his big-screen.
“Okay I’m going to go. I’ll see you when I get home,” I say a little easier than I expected.
“Okay,” he says.
And I go. And it’s okay that I go by myself. Like really okay this time. Going alone doesn’t mean I’m a loser. It doesn’t mean anything more than I make it mean.
I walked back to the kitchen where I’d left the pages of my notebook open, pen resting in the middle crack, and read my poem once more. And a smile came.
And I’ve always been that.
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