If the snow would only keep coming. It would stop my running. And then, finally, she’d know I was here. I’d stay just one drink—or six—ahead of her because when I drown it out it’s easier to carry on. Like none of this has ever happened before, even though I know it has, because of snippets and visions and living daily moments that feel—time and time again—like the past.
They show me sometimes.
People—ghosts, I guess—warming my gut. Making me see things I’ve never asked to see.
Like a Grandpa with a good sense of humor that ate too much meat and killed a cat with a freezer door. He died at home. Alone. On the kitchen floor. Calling for his wife who had passed five years before.
Like a six-year-old daughter smothered by her mother. A pillow to the face in the middle of the night during a dream of daddy coming home.
And a wife, hot and bothered by the scent, the humor, the crooked smile of a man that is not her own. Fascinated so much by his height, his darkness, the unknown that she sees how easy it would be to poison her husband. Just a drip, a nibble, a drink at a time so that she’d kill him lovingly, with compassion, in his own home, on her time.
Strange things happen like this and they are so fine and yet so bloated with detail it’s hard to escape the reality I’ve reluctantly come to know as mine.
There’s no cure.
Not in snow. In running. In drinking. Or loving. All of it just keeps coming. In the light and the dark and whether I’m alone or with friends. All I can do is hold on—remain centered—and hope there’s clarity at the end.