Outside the Window: What’s the weather outside your window doing right now? If that’s not inspiring, what’s the weather like somewhere you wish you could be?


The bottle of water near my bed has turned into ice, and the heater no longer seems to be working. We sleep close, side-by-side, just so our bodies’ heat could warm us up an insignificant bit more. The worst part of my day is when that persistent prickling comes protruding its way onto the scene, and the thought of smoking a cigarette overwhelms any basic desire to remain in fetal position for warmth. I leave her with the blanket and I take to window in a tattered Christmas sweater and I-promise-they-aren’t-stolen, high-end, designer sweatpants her parents bought me for my birthday last year once they heard her and I would be moving out onto the Reserve for a few months to see what kind of work opens up for us. They weren’t open to the idea originally of her going, but there was something they saw in me or trusted in me to make sure she was safe. Trust, it’s an unspoken understanding, a heuristic, deeply-rooted in mammalian brains that more often than not leads us in the path of unforeseen perils because there isn’t a chance one’s gut-instinct could be wrong. We are all, after-all, raised being told to believe our gut, and that when in doubt, follow it’s intuitive destructive path only to what at the time seemed like the only logic explanation.

Ash falls from the cigarette; I cradle it with my hands as I take a drag so I can feel the heat in my hands. On most days, I don’t know why I choose to live on the Reserve, and everyday I wonder why she choose to come live with me. The cigarette makes a hiss as its flicked into the white snow that’s managed to build up to the level of the house’s window. I just thank her for coming.



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