Safe Wintry Nights

The clouds are a musty, almost polluted grey. The kind of grey you can only get deep in the city, yet it coats the night perfectly.

The soft yellow automatic lights of nearby bungalows flicker in and out, triggered by the passing snowflakes. 

The blueish grey snow twinkles a trillion tiny stars all for me.

I look up at the street light. It shines onto the blowing snowflakes, framing them. Revealing them to us. 

I feel my body heat, and the warmth against my dog's fur as we curl into a blanket.

This is our safe place. It's safe here. And it'll only be safe here. Why does my safe place have to be temporary?

And so I run.

Down the steps, my boots smear into the wet stone tiles. I run down the driveway, and slip into the fresh ice. My hands graze it, and it stings. But I persist.

I run to the road, wary of my snow-melting footprints, then I back up enough to see the street light.

And it's unimaginable.

This wind pelting snowflakes towards me, this angelic bright light burning my retinas, this comforting cold freezing my bare arms.

I want to sink into it, to get enveloped and absorbed into this peaceful bitter cold.

It's the most beautiful thing I have ever seen.

My lips tremble, my hands grasp the ends of my hair and I stand still, basking in this image of peace and perfection.

And my time was short, though I could have stood there forever.

The winds change, and I get pushed with a faster, more numb cold. The cold that faces towards this driveway, this place that I always come back to.

I shiver in my thin tank top, in my pajama bottoms, and I walk back to those steps.

My dog, wrapped up in a blanket.

"Time to go back in."

Why does my safe place have to be temporary?