The One With The Snowman

I got used to texting him to no answer. I’d jot down my I miss yous on scraps of paper, roll them up, stuff them into empty beer bottles and send them bobbing into the waves. The lost island of unheard regrets. I could write a book on longing and package it in brown paper and twine but he would never open it. He’d shake it until all my carefully chosen words could no longer cling to the pages and would fall into a corner, the letters all tangled and broken.

He makes me nervous in my own skin, in my own space, in my own life and I stutter when I talk to myself and my hands shake when I place them on my temples or at the soft skin between my thighs. I wonder when my eyes will close and I will no longer see him there and I hope that tonight will be the night that my arm won’t reach across the bed and dive into the empty nest of pillows by my side, searching for him or the warm imprint his body has left behind, and come up empty & aching again.

I put my mask back on. I smooth my hair back and wear touches of makeup. I make an effort to be the girl I was before the sky fell in on me and I can see her there waiting patiently across the tracks. Look both ways before you cross, she says. Find someone to hold your hand.

A friend tells me she has guy friend that wants to meet me. She sends me his picture and he stares out at me half-smiling, this stranger. She says I need a distraction and a distraction that also makes his own furniture is something that the girl across the tracks would flirt with, seduce, and then maybe snap in half across her knee. I am not her, so I do nothing.  I consider the idea of him as though I am drawing from the pile and adding a card to my hand. I wait for someone to ask me what I have, so I can throw them all down, fold, and try again. But, the question never comes. I wonder if I’m playing against myself and if that’s the case, how I can possibly win.

My memories are fading and I try to chase them, catch them like snowflakes on my tongue. I can’t remember how his voice sounds, anymore. But, I can recall the feeling of his short hair between my fingers while we drove. How we would always take our gloves off to hold hands and the hearts I would leave melted into the frost on his passenger side window.

My cold feet in the bend of his knees.

I build him up from torso to head, a snow man, and pray he comes to life… or at least melts swiftly, instead.

The Bird and the Bee – Carol of the Bells


11 thoughts on “The One With The Snowman”

  1. Oh, that shaken book, what an incredible image.

    In one of your recent posts you mentioned something about time not necessarily being a healer of wounds, that you carry these things with you. While I’d agree that you don’t necessarily forget, given a long enough time line, the memories do come to more closely resemble wisdom than pain or regret. At least, that’s been the case for me.

    Here’s wishing those memories a speedy metamorphosis.

  2. Oh. I sometimes wonder if we can ever really move on until we actually move on. And, isn’t it so unfair that when we do it is sometimes only half-hearted until memories fade and new ones rise to take their faces. This was lovely.

    1. I often start new romances without completely ending the old. When I look back they all blur into each other, one long string of pounding hearts. I can scarcely see the seams where one love ends and another begins.

  3. Gorgeous, Birdy. Gorgeous.

    The idea is so much better than the reality. I have a problem with not only the idea of who she was, but the idea of who I was when I was with her.

    1. Ah there’s the rub: “…the idea of who I was when I was with her,” how do we separate one from the other? Often I can’t see until I’m far enough away how much of myself I am fighting with in a failing relationship. The ideas that we have of eachother that seem to float slightly adjacent to the real thing, distracting, almost like the placement of an object under water… never quite where you think it’s going to be.

  4. ❤ … I cannot offer but distractions, my love.

    If there were an answer page at the back of this book you write, I would bare the burden to flip back – cheat – steal the answers, so that I could lay bread crumbs for you… to follow the right path back to that girl before the heartbreak… Or better yet, the stronger one that is repaired.

    Unfortunately, there are no preassigned answers for your book … only one blank page following many others, waiting to be written.

    Your story has a graceful, poetic ending. I'm sure of it. One with beautiful colours and images, full of love and happiness, family, friends and that one you have yet to dream of. I can't predict your car wrecks, but I can do my best to guide you as safely as possible along your journey… hopefully you will continue to accompany me during mine 🙂 xoxo

  5. I often wonder what it would be like to be real romantic… doing romantic things… or at least emotional things. I guess they’re one and the same, just with a few altered variables.

    I mean, I like to think I’m a romantic, but really… I think I’m just cold… hmpf.

  6. I always thought there would be bookends. There are never any dividers…just more cards and less cards in my hand…just seasons blending…

    I will make a wish on the snow for your snowman. Live or melted.

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