They Say She's a Crone

January isn't entirely to blame for the milk-pale light that fills my house, but is responsible for how few hours I can enjoy before darkness falls and all of my motivation with it, limp as a body in sleep. M covered the windows of our most frequented rooms with plastic. I didn't like it a few years ago when he insisted upon it because it was something my father always did to the windows in our trailer, and the door in my bedroom that wasn't really meant to be used. It made me feel like we weren't living in a real place, or a pod. And I liked using the door.

I never sneaked out to meet anyone, but I did leave my room on stormy nights, climb onto the porch and straddle the flag pole like a broomstick. The wind tossed my hair and pajama bottoms like they might that of a witch, or her hair, anyway. No witch worth imagining would wear pajama bottoms.

It's the strangest time of year. I want the sense and clarity of glass but everything is uncertain and all of my planning and dreaming seems to be about what won't happen for months, at least. Winter will get away from me still if I keep on letting my afternoons expire too soon into evenings.