“This first prompt doesn’t seem too hard,”
I thought as I start to write, but boy oh boy was I wrong. I tried to insert a bit of Stream of Consciousness, as I’ve just finished re-reading As I Lay Dying by my homie Faulkner, and I’m not really sure how it went. The good thing about this whole experiment is that it is just that, an experiment. It’s my attempt at trying something new, at stretching myself and attempting to emulate (attempting being the keyword) the greats, to try and find my niche.
Well, here goes.
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?
It was dark out her window. Dark and not-cold, the kind of not-cold that flit upon your skin, leaving the faintest imprint, the most fleeting chill. She didn’t like not-cold, she wanted the kind of cold that seeped into your very bones, that nestled in your breast and refused to leave despite the amount of layers you pile onto your body. She wanted the cold that could only be remedied by books, by hot chocolate and too much whipped cream, the kind where you hide in the corner with a blanket and end up falling asleep with the steam moistening your face.
She wanted snow.
She didn’t know snow. She had never seen snow, but it was such a magical word. It would leave it’s imprint in her mouth, she would play with the words in her head, it would bounce around her skull and then settle gently as she slept. Everyday, with increasing fervor she would race to the window, press her face against the not-cold glass and look at the not-cold world, and she would squeeze her eyes shut and beg the world for just a single flake of the elusive and almost fictional thing she had never seen, never felt, never experienced. The thing she wanted so badly, but that she did not actually know.
It was and wasn’t, it is and will never be, it had to be but it couldn’t be and it was and yet it could never be and here she was with her nose pressed against the glass, her breath creating fog, and she wanted oh God she wanted but she could never have the sweet cold snow that she had been wanted to see her whole life and here she was ready and it would never come, never come, never come.
Perhaps, and this was something she realized often, snow would not be quite as wonderful as she had hoped for, but she was a dreamer.
Actually, if she ever had seen snow she would’ve hated it. She didn’t know this, but she hated the cold. Having lived her life in an area that is practically the desert, she lived in the incessant heat of the sun, which she loved but she did not realized she loved because how can you love something that is always there and never is not? How can you love what is present if it never is not a reality? To her, heat was not something you could love because it was not something it simply was and she paid no mind to it because there was never any real reason to pay any mind to it so she didn’t, she never thought of it, never, not once, never.
But she hated the cold, but she couldn’t hate the cold because she couldn’t know the cold and so she would sit at her little window and she would dream of the cold. She sent hours reading about the Alps, she would look up pictures of winter on the internet, she would listen to the sounds of snowfall, but it was never enough.
But she had no other choice.
So, like every great American citizen, she settled for the stifling heat (that she loved but couldn’t love) and the flat terrain, and she waited and waited to feel the cold and to scale the mountains and to fall asleep with the hot chocolate and maybe a small dog near a window sill.
I saw her last week.
I hadn’t seen her in a while.
She was staring out the window. You could see the longing in her clouded brown eyes.
Dad always said I had her eyes.
She wanted to feel the cold, but not the cold she felt now, not the cold hand of death reaching out and grasping her by the foot, dragging her further and further from me, the cold of the mountains.
I wish I had taken her to the cold of the mountains. I had the means. I had the money. I just needed the time-
I had the time.
I had plenty of time.
She doesn’t have any. Not anymore. Negative time. Time has passed since I last saw her, since she last saw. Since she stared out the window of her hospital room with such longing, since she sighed her last sigh, looked at me with a tear in her eye, and just sighed. Sighed like the weight of the world was placed on her chest, like it could never be removed. Just sighed like that and that was that and then it was the end. No more, not ever, not ever, nevermore, done.
I wish I had taken her to the cold of the mountains.