It's Snowing Again

It’s snowing again. Just when I had come to love the long dark winter, I’ll be leaving it behind in my rear view. I don’t want to leave anymore, but I can’t stay here. I don’t have to go but I can’t stay here and it doesn’t make much sense. It’s snowing, and March is almost out the door, as if it knew I needed one last chance to say goodbye. I don’t like saying goodbye. 


I’ve been waving all my life and watching life pass me by in the mirror of a moving truck. I’m sick of it. I just want to say put, want to know what home feels like, what having something to go back to is like. I don’t know how many houses I’ve lived in, I’ve lost count and I don’t want to leave anymore. 


I don’t even know when the leaving will really happen, I’ve been standing too close to the edge though. I don’t want to leave. But I can’t stay. It wasn’t the house pictures, wasn’t the packing boxes, or packing tape, it was the snow. The snow and that it may be the last I ever see here, that’s what did it. 


And I feel like a broken record and a broken doll, as if I wasn't meant to be anything more than the one that leaves. I don’t know why this hurts. I want this. I need this, I need the leaving because there’s nothing left for me here, there’s nothing more that I can do. But I don’t want the cleaving. 


I’ve been standing on the edge and brushing possibilities hair. I looked at my future and said I can’t stay here, it won’t work I just know it, but I don’t want to leave. Waiting for the ax to drop, for the glass to break, for the ground to crumble, waiting. I just know it’s coming, and I’m scrambling for the strength for when it arrives, for when it all changes. I can never not walk out that door again. Once the door is open there’s not shutting it, no matter how hard I brace myself the falls still gonna hurt. 


Running away is easy, but leaving is hard. I don’t think I’m ready, but I know I’ll never be, I just wish I could get it over with. 


My eyes ache with a swollen-ness I can only feel not see and I’m sure they’re red. A friend once told me I was a beautiful crier, I’m not sure I believe her, but I have had a lot of practice. Sometimes grief comes to keep me and sometimes it comes to sip tea, it’s not consistent. I don’t know where or how or when I’m going and all I have is hope. Hope that it will be different this time, that it will be better this time, this time, this time, this time. 


I think I’ll do it like a child this time, with my hand over my eyes and peaking through my finger tips. I think I’ll do it with faith this time. And with hope, can’t forget about the hope. I’ll pack my bag full to bursting with hope in the shape of socks, stuff love in-between the books and cram memories in the last spaces. I’m gonna do this with hope, holding hands with my maker and trusting Him to lead me out of the darkness. 


It stopped snowing, the sky’s just grey now. 

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