cold weather diary, 4.

you were driving me to the train station that morning. it was the first time i'd visited your house. it was my sophomore year of college; winter break. we'd spent the last few months together, every day. it was the beginning of a long, tiring, empty three years, which with every ounce of my being, i tried to make better, every single long, tiring, empty day.

that morning we made pancakes. i remember your feet on the tile floors. i remember your dishwasher, your pantry, your blue shorts. i think your whole family was there. i used food dye to turn the pancakes pink, blue, and purple. your family thought this was unusual - in retrospect, this was probably the first real sign. i felt like i was being studied and mocked. months later your father would ask me, "so, laura, have you opened up yet?" the night before at dinner, everyone was silent. i carried the conversation, mimicking my mother, asking questions, exaggerating my love for the steelers in order to find some common ground. i think i even talked politics, which is as unusual for me as it gets.

that night i slept in the guest room on a futon. your parents had little candle lights in each bedroom window. i think i kept mine on when i slept, i liked the way it felt. i liked the way the snow falling looked - like glitter. it was warm. we'd taken a walk in the woods earlier that day. i had to borrow your neighbor's wife's boots. he asked if we were dating - you said no. i thought, "then why am i here?" i think we were reading the same book at the time and tried to talk about it - but the walks in the woods are a blur now. they all flow into each other. most of those three years do. i was a ghost of myself - so it's hard to remember anything finite.

but i do remember this drive to the train station. there was a heavy covering of snow. farms covered in snow. lakes turned to ice. the way the early morning light falls soft, empty and quiet with a new layer of snow. the pennsylvania mountains around us. we drove slowly. we were listening to iron & wine, i'm sure it was my choice. i think we were quiet most of the ride. we had to be. this kind of beauty either turns you silent or makes you whisper. i wanted to hear the music more than i wanted to talk, so a whisper would not work. i was lost in my own dreams, my own romance; i was lost in the beauty that i could see but i knew you didn't have the eyes for.

and now that i think about it - i don't actually remember you here. i wonder if this was the day that we stopped being alive to each other. was it the day that i became a ghostly pale reflection of a woman you would marry? and did you, on that day, become the person i could, with careful attention to detail and delicate craftsmanship, turn into a brave, passionate, courageous man?

i put my hands in my vest pockets. warm against my warmth. a silent reminder then that would act as a savior in the years to come. a reminder to a place so deep inside of me that i was not even conscious of it. a reminder that i could keep myself warm without you.