The Predicament

I am bones sewn together by a sheet of pale chiffon, buried under six feet of quilted ennui. I am surrounded by cups left half-empty and unopened mail. Piles of unwashed clothes intermingle with take-out bags and bobby pins. In this little winter wasteland, there is only one footpath through all of the disarray, and it doesn’t even lead to the egress. There is no sound but the dripping of melted snow on peeling window panes. There is no smell or taste in the air. There isn’t even a purpose to breathe. There is nothing left of me. This is hibernation. Metabolic depression. Dormancy. Is this the winter where I finally let go? And would it be letting go, or getting taken? Would there even be a reason to go on once I push back these covers to reveal the shell of a human I created within just a few months? The cold has long since seeped into my marrow and into the very center of my brain. 

They say that it gets better, and it does. Every year, it seems to get better once the sun begins to shine and the cold moves on to the other side of the world. Such a simple cure for a hidden disease. The Predicament, my mother calls it. “You’re in quite The Predicament,” she says. “Once The Predicament is gone, how about summer-ing in Maine?”. Some may think that the things my mother says are counter-productive, dismissive even. But, the thought of Maine in the summer warms my bones. The thought of once again leaving this Hibernation, this Predicament, and assimilating with daily life once again keeps me going. And yet, I can’t seem to lift this cover. I can’t find a reason to follow that one footpath to visit the bathroom, the only other room in this house I’ve been to in days. 

And suddenly, I hear it, outside the window. It’s so faint, so far away. And then another. Birds. Those annoying ones that wait to sing until you roll over the first time in the morning as you try to settle farther down into your dreams. I’ve never heard birds sing so sweetly. I wonder what they’re saying to each other. Maybe they’re sharing ‘good morning's or ‘hello’s. I imagine the simple lives they lead. I question if they’ve ever had to deal with The Predicament. The Predicament receives its first blow, straight to the face. And then, I see it. Creeping up above the wet window pane. You’re early, I thought. A beautiful orange peeks at me from the thin space between the curtains. I’ve missed you, I thought again. The sun speaks, the sun knows, and I can’t wait to catch up on everything she has missed. I’m sure she can’t wait to hear what I have to say. She’ll absorb my words and thoughts and will burn brighter in return. She and I never talk about her going away once our time together is over. There are people in other hemispheres with The Predicament that have just as much to discuss with her. The birds get louder, different singers joining the choir. How long have they gone unnoticed by me? How many days? Weeks? Perhaps this is their first performance of the season, considering the ambiance the sun is giving them. 

I want to taste the air. 

I want to taste the melted snow that has begun its transformation from gloss on the grass to a barely-noticeable and damp warmth. The weak palpitations in my chest seem to get stronger, shallow breaths seem to finally reach the bottom of my lungs. The orange spotlight hurts my eyes and, yet, I can’t look away. She climbs higher and higher up the space between the curtains, coating this little winter wasteland in an apricot film. The whole house seems to sigh. I do the same. I’ve been this hungry before, but I’ve never been so hungry and so willing to eat at the same time. I’m willing. The Predicament receives its second jab, this time it seems to be detrimental. The Predicament is so real, so alive, and still so frail. It’s amazing how quickly a well-known killer can be apprehended right as its weapon comes down for one final and deadly strike. Amazing that the apprehender is a tiny stream of sunlight. The killer, The Predicament, is still there. It will never be truly quelled. It will simply be detained, thrown into a small jail cell in my mind for a few months, waiting for escape, waiting for reprisal. It will get me again and it will try to take back the progress I make while it’s gone. It will try to take the music, and the sun-kissed skin, and the sea away from me, and it will very likely succeed. It will take Maine, and bare feet, and biking. But, that doesn’t mean I’m not going to try and grasp onto all of the sun I can take. I am going to hold onto everything that can fit into my heart and soul.

Still, it will get me again, like it does every year without fail. The sun will begin to hide for days at a time, the birds will lose their voices. The pressure to be merry and bright will make me do just the opposite. Mother will once again force vitamin D down my gullet, and she’ll return to her cycle of bringing my mail to my room once she notices the mound of paper surrounding the lonesome mailbox. The snow will cage everyone and myself inside and paint everything a sickly chalk. No sound, no smell, no taste. Blank, empty, and deadly. Hope will return as the theme of the season, but I’ll be the last one to hold onto it. The Predicament will find me again, and maybe it will finally get what it wants from me as I fail to fight back like I’ve done in the past.

And still, the cover is lifted. Maybe next winter.