It is in these Winter months
that I tend to grow.
When the ground is barren
and the leaves have fallen,
in the sodden soil,
amongst the muck
and silver snow,
where love toils
and the past makes mockery,
as if the acknowledgment of
my old home, cold and damp,
is not enough to take
seriously where I'm from.
Where floorboards creak,
sighing from the weight of
heavy steps throughout
the years,
the pipes freeze, then burst,
then freeze again,
and we wrap them in blankets
we would otherwise wrap
ourselves,
victims of harsh months,
cold air and throats sore
from yelling into the
weary night.
The home I used to live in is very old and very rundown. Every time the air cools, I'm reminded of it and how it used to feel to live in a home without heat. The Winter months were always the harshest. We would run space heaters (a trade-off on the electric bill, of course) in the bathroom, and that would be our little "pocket of warmth" in the house because it was the smallest room. I think all of this is, to this day, why I prefer a house to stay warmer rather than cooler.
My Mother once asked me if I'd forgotten what it was like in that cold house. I told her I would never.
My throat was sore this morning when I woke up, yet another reminder of the months to come.