I can remember what it’s like to be warm, sometimes. Sun gleaming down, people outside, everyone’s mood lifting. I remember it in a similar way to a holiday commercial, idyllic but fake. I picture it with halogen lights, Photoshop touch-ups, and colour corrections.
The contrast nob turned up just a little. Other times I can’t picture it at
all, it’s as though there has never been summer and never will be. The
greyness, the wind and the drizzle, have always been and always will be.
Colour in winters past was limited to the interior. Open fires in the home, with sweaters, scarfs and socks of vivid colours hung around them, defying the grey.
We huddled on couches under bright blankets or bedding with crazy print covers, watching a big screen TV and talking. Even the mugs of hot drinks had colourful patterns or tourist slogans from various, warmer, holiday spots that were echoed in sunny postcards on the fridge.
For many years I kept the greyness out this way. Although we’d moved further south several times, edging closer to Antarctica, it didn’t affect what happened inside, other than the number of overcoats and dripping umbrellas that were kept near the front door.
My mistake was thinking I could keep everything dark out, that we were insulated, that we were invincible.
It crept in, quietly, secretly: a small, cold draught only noticeable if someone was sitting in its path. It had found a place and stayed put, long before I noticed it. You started not getting home until it was dark, a little later every time. There was more work so there were longer hours, it made sense. Then came cryptic messages, unknown callers on the screen, and muffled apologies when I picked up. I recall now that you were also concerned about the mail, always collecting it for me, especially the bills, and your computer had a password all of a
sudden. Signs, that might as well have been in Sanskrit for all the attention I paid. Excuses papered over any cracks. I was grateful for all your hard work. Self-satisfied in our cosy existence, maybe I deserved a to be hit.
Now I crawl around, scrapping all sides with a comb, trying to find clues. I know that this will not help me to move on, however right now I want to send all ideas of acceptance to the same place I want to send you.
When exactly did you start choking? When did you open a window and let the weather in?
These questions may be irrelevant to you, focusing on symptoms not causes; dwelling on the negative or whatever the counsellor said, but I want to know, I want to dwell.
I’ve changed the locks, and the phone, and not given anyone the new number. If a phone no longer rings does it exist? I mostly sit in the dark, shivering. The cold fills every corner of the house. I rarely leave. I’ve overhauled my wardrobe and décor as bright colours now make me ill. The difference between the interior and exterior these days is only a question of degree.
All this seems to be what is required. I can’t see ahead right now. I want you to stay out, at least for a while longer.