Updated: Oct 18, 2021
I’m not ready. No more huddling warmth and large boots. The bundled coat had only just arrived. I was just getting used to the pressing feel of feathers on my arms.
I’m not ready. Snow was caking the ground, icing-white, muffling this new place and making it magic. With the sprouting of flowers I see it’s just the ground, just the same earth, only six hundred miles away from the place I used to call home.
I love seeing these poking out between the dead leaves, but isn’t it a bit soon?
I’m not ready. Supermarket trolleys piled with root vegetables and things that sit and warm the stomach. The soft touch of stew on the teeth a consolation to the biting cold outside. Must we crunch on salad now?
I’m not ready. My body loosely covered in slumping wool. The surety of a vest on the morning pile of clothes. This skin is too pale, too puckered for the sun. It needs time and slow increments to be released into the world. The wrists peering out of a shorter top, the ankles making an appearance when socks are daringly discarded.
I’m not ready. The sunglasses lie in the holiday drawer. Dusty and discarded until June. Their arms will creak if I take them out now, before their hibernation is done.
It can’t be time for these already…
I’m not ready. Glaring sun brings an uncomfortable sweat but shadows hold the February chill. Such brightness and warmth followed by the sun’s early setting. Rhythms syncopated, confused by this lurch into the future.
I’m not ready. I thought I had more time to sit immobile on the sofa, chocolate dissolving in my mouth as I contemplated this new place, this new life. I’m not ready to live it yet.
I’m not ready.
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