The Persistence of Time

“It’s a dangerous thing, you know.” You said peering out the window. The room was dimly lit and shadows danced around your face as you tilted your head up.

“Snow?” I chuckled, knowing that you had been vague on purpose to prompt me to inquire further. You pressed your lips together in a half grin and shrugged. I don’t remember your response. 

—

The snow came down even harder the following year and had started about a quarter past midnight. You had brought me hot chocolate, I remember because it burnt my tongue for the next few days. 

—

“I was afraid you wouldn’t make it this year.” I teased as you brushed the snow off your coat and unlaced your boots. You looked at me incredulously, taking a dramatic pause from untying your shoes. 

“Never! What a rude thing to say!” You teased back. Your hair had grown significantly, though I wouldn’t dare to comment on it. You looked nice, almost ethereal with the fat snowflakes slowly melting in your hair and the rosiness of your cheeks deepening the sculpture-like features of your face.

“The walk wasn’t too bad, I hope?” I asked, distracting myself from the mental disruption your presence had caused.

“Lovely as always. It’s gosh darn cold this year though, I need to start bundling up more.” You sighed as you plopped yourself on the couch and peered out the window. The reflections of the snow and street lamps bounced around your face as you admired the falling snow.

—

I had knitted you a hat, scarf, and a pair of gloves and was halfway through crocheting you a blanket when the snow began to fall the following year. You had remembered though, the following year, how cold it gets. And you arrived already quite bundled. I shoved my year’s knitting projects into the drawers in the TV stand when I saw my motion-sensor porch light come on and you trudging up the already snow-covered steps wrapped in a scarf and mittens. On second thought I pulled out the hat and pretended to finish it up as you walked in.

“You don’t want it?” You asked when I nonchalantly offered you the hat I had made, pretending I hadn’t spent hours deciding on a design and color palette that I knew you would like. 

“I’ve already made myself a bunch,” I shrugged. “I need someone to take them off my hands.” I lied. You pulled the hat over your head and stood up to check yourself out in the mirror that hung above the mantle. 

“I love it,” You beamed. “The colors are so perfect.” My chest filled with an undeniable warmth. One that would have me worried if you weren’t standing here in front of me being the reason. 

—

“How’s your brother?” You asked the following year. You turned your head to look out the large bay window in my living room. Fat snowflakes dropped from the sky and melted upon contact with the pavement but had begun to leave a thin white layer on my lawn, like a sheet loosely laid on a bed. 

“He’s doing good!” Not a complete lie. Why bother you with the intricacies of his substance abuse issues, the constant in and out of rehab and relapse? This time is for us. I will savor every minute of it for the next year, until the snow falls again.

—

I’m 26 now. And you 27. It’s December 9th and I’ve been checking the weather forecast every 30 minutes for the past week. The snow should begin in an hour. I wring my hands together trying to squeeze out the anxiety that has been plaguing me recently. I got lunch with my mom last month. She told me you’re engaged. I knew you had been seeing someone for a while, though it never came up in conversation between the two of us. That isn’t the type of thing we talk about, which is fine with me. I don’t think I could handle the stories you would tell about you two, even just thinking about it now has my stomach knotted up. 

I pull the roast chicken out of the oven and stick the thermometer in. Five years in a row. Is your recent engagement going to occupy you this year? Will your betrothed talk you out of spending this day with me? Maybe you’ll want to start spending the first snowfall at your own house with your own family. 

I set the chicken on the stove to rest and pull the pan of potatoes out of the oven, giving them a thorough stir. My arms feel weak, nervousness pulsating through my fingertips. Surely your partner wouldn’t want you spending a cozy winter night with me. Dread has begun to bloom in the depths of my stomach. I pull the kitchen window curtain to the side and peek out. No snow flakes yet. 

“How long have you been seeing each other now?” My mom had asked me when we got lunch. I gave her a pointed look. 

“We haven’t seen each other since we were teenagers.” I responded with a bit of an edge to my voice. “This is the, uh, sixth year that we’re doing this though.” I relaxed my voice and shrugged passively, trying not to give away the fact that this was practically the only thing I had left to look forward to.

“Well,” Mom pushed her eyebrows up momentarily. She searched my face and her expression softened. We don’t see each other much as my life has turned into a monotonous routine of work, drowning in despair, and sleeping. “Good for you two, for maintaining contact for so long.” She takes a bite of her food and I let out a sigh. 

I peek out the window again to see specks of white floating innocently through the night sky. My heart drops to my stomach as it does every year when I see the first snowflakes leave the clouds. The only thing that really signifies the passage of time in my repetitious routine. 

I return to my couch making sure I’m in view of the porch. I try to busy myself by picking up a book and turning the TV on. It’s hard to prevent my eyes from flicking to the porch every few minutes. And each time I just notice how the snow has become more intense and the porch has remained dark and empty. 

Maybe you haven’t even noticed that it has started snowing. You’re just occupied and haven’t looked out the window… or at the weather forecast. I start to mindlessly fiddle with the edge of the page, curling the thin paper between my thumb and forefinger. I shrug and convince myself it hasn’t been snowing for long and it’s not unlike you to come late.

After a while of reading, pacing, and picking at the chicken and potatoes that have been sitting in the kitchen, the pit in my stomach has become impossible to ignore. 

“Relax your shoulders… and take deep breaths.” You had said to me over the phone once, nearly 8 years ago now. You never really knew how to help me with my anxiety nor did I know what I needed from you. You had wanted me to come with you and your family to go skiing for the weekend. A step I didn’t think I was ready to make. A step outside of my comfort zone, outside the safety and familiarity of my life. 

“I… I don’t know,” You stammered when I had skirted around giving you a straight answer. “I just thought it would be something we could do together… at this point in our relationship.” I knew you weren’t trying to guilt me but remorse stabbed through my chest.

“I’m sorry,” I said after a few seconds of excruciating silence. “I’ve just been struggling a lot, right now, with my–”

“Depression, yes I know,” Your voice cut. I heard you sigh over the phone and could practically see you rubbing your eyes. “It’s okay. It’s fine.” I nodded though you couldn’t see me. I mumbled an apology and we hung up, my chest tightening with every breath. 

A gust of wind rattles my windows and pulls me out of my quick descent into misery. I snap my head to the window to see a near blizzard battering the neighborhood. I nod, trying to breathe and prevent the pressure in my chest from spreading.

Almost 2 hours have passed since the first snow of the year started. The chicken and potatoes have gone completely cold though I would probably throw up if I tried to eat right now. I sink into my couch. I’ve started to become dreary but can’t pull myself off of the couch or tear my eyes away from my dark porch and the flurry of snowflakes whipping in the wind. 

I nod. It’s okay, it’s fine. I shrug. I inhale and hold the breath in my lungs allowing the air to expand my chest and release some tension. We’ve gone our separate ways, for good. Though I’m trying to come to terms with this, I can’t help but hear your voice cutting through. And my own voice, running through every time I pushed you away or left you in the dark. 

And just as I roll my head back and close my eyes, I see the flicker of the porch light and small snowflakes drifting innocently to the ground.