It had finally
gotten cold, but only about three days ago, so she hadn’t yet been convinced
this was actually the beginning of the U.K. winter she’d been warned about. She
pulled her leather jacket around her a little tighter, and put as much of her hands
as would fit in the small zipper pockets. She lived just on the outskirts of
town, but she didn’t mind the walk. It gave her time to think, when she was in
a thinking mood, which she most often was, and tonight. Most of the time she
thought about her day, about her resolutions for the next (to leave her bed
before noon, to be on time to class, to smile at a stranger, to write a bloody
sentence, to not be a bumbling American idiot in front of the Sainsbury’s
cashiers, etc.).
Sometimes she
thought about her family, about how much she missed her Mom’s dinners and hugs
and lists, in that order, and her Dad’s stories: the conviction in his voice
whenever he told them. She caught herself from time to time, whenever she was
reading out loud, trying to emulate the dips and dives, the sincerity in every
syllable that she’d learned from him. She missed her sister, but over their
years apart she’d become easier to miss. Not because she loved her less or
missed her less, but because her heart had grown used to being physically separated
from the person who understood her best.
Tonight, she was
thinking about the city. She was thinking about the cobblestones under her
feet. She was thinking about how much lovelier the streets would be if the
trees were burning like they did back home. Nonetheless, she loved them.
It was this
sense of singularity that catalyzed the process. She never loved anything
before she left it. Or at least, she could never recognize it for the love that
it was. But when she returned from a short weekend trip, just days ago as the
cold was settling over the city, she felt a sense of returning to somewhere near
to feeling like home. As she walked and reacquainted herself, she found she had
missed the hills they liked to call streets (always uphill, remarkably). Her
ears had grown accustomed to the cold; the frost had restored her to the former
snow enthusiast she was, before DC winters eroded that version of herself away.
Once she let
herself love bits and pieces, the rest came in a rush: The effortless
combination of modern and medieval buildings; the way the sunshine scared away
the cold as soon as it came out from behind the clouds; the way people could
never make up their mind about which side of the sidewalk to walk on. This
usually would drive her insane, but here she was just as confused as the rest
of them and had come to love the little side step shuffle dance with strangers.
They were always kind, shouting ‘cheers’ after her when they finally managed to
brush past. Even the homeless were
extremely polite, despite if she could spare them any change. Plus, many of
them had dogs. She liked the idea that a sense of companionship could make
someone so many degrees warmer, even when they had many reasons (including the
weather) to be cold.
“I need to buy a
scarf”, she thought, if only to get the damn weather off her mind.
But the universe
had different plans for that evening, and as she reached the Quartermile, it
began to rain. She did love the rain, though there never had been a solution
for her hair in such circumstances. Umbrella’s weren’t the answer, since the
rain didn’t fall, but rather formed a ball of mist around her as she strode on.
As she did, she
passed two other girls who hadn’t yet hung up their leather jackets for the
season, and she felt better about holding out hope for a few more sunny late
summer days, even as mid-October charged in head on at her full force.
She crossed the
Meadows, noting for the millionth time (probably) that the scene from the
Wizard of Oz with the scary apple trees could probably have been inspired by
the very path she had to walk each night. She decided this place was a lot like
Oz, everything either grand or green, as long as you substituted munchkins for folks
on bikes.
She was nearing
the end of the paved path now, preparing her ankles to take on the cobblestone
in heels for the last time today. Her flat was only 3 more minutes’ walk, but
she hadn’t quite finished her thinking for the night. Unsure, really, of what she was thinking
around, it didn’t much matter. She knew the moment she opened the door the fluorescent
lights would scare away any ideas like flashlights in a bat cave.
She did love her
flat. It had beautiful arches in the doorway, a meticulously tiled floor foyer and
a smart vestibule that kept out that damned chill in the air. Her door was
large and wooden, carved with care (and symmetrically, which was more
important). It possessed a big golden 3 in the center, and a knocker beneath.
The knocker was next to useless, because directly behind the door was a staircase
that took you up two levels to the kitchen, and another two to the bedrooms. You
wouldn’t be heard unless you buzzed up, and even then there was still a slight
chance.
Anyway, it was
this time of night that all her flat mates were home, buzzing about in
preparation for their tomorrows’ as well. They were kind people. Well
intentioned, respectful. She even considered one a friend. But it was nothing
like coming home. Her room was her safe haven from the world, as it had been
her whole life. But she liked open windows and
open doors in her home. Leaving just the window open, without the neutralization
of the hallway air, was proving to complicate the perfect balance between the
biting wind and the burning (ancient) radiator that lined her eastern wall.
Behind that
marvelous wooden door there were many good things: the first kitchen of her
very own with left over mashed potatoes in the fridge; Magnum chocolate peanut
butter ice cream bars in the freezer; a bottle of her favorite wine, unopened;
in her room, her quilt, which remained as well traveled as she was, and freshly
washed linens lay snugly tugged around her bed. But all the fresh blankets and
ice cream in the world wouldn’t make up for what was lacking; the warm
welcomes, the comfortable intimacy that comes with living with loved ones,
family and friends alike. The sense of being home, on a smaller scale. Being so
familiar with a person, you can identify who has come home by the sound of
their footsteps or the jingle of their keys; knowing how their day has gone by
the playlist that has begun to waft out from under their door.
And so, that’s
what she finally found herself thinking about as she rounded the corner of her
block. Gazing up to the second story, she caught shadows flickering in the candle
light in the kitchen’s giant wooden windows (another thing she absolutely
adored). But as she neared the gate, she kept her eyes steady on to the next
building.
She thought she
would go for a few more blocks, maybe find a few more scary apple trees to
paint with burning browns in her mind. Putting a few more minutes of cobblestone
under her feet, she held onto the well-nigh feeling of home they gave her. Maybe
when she got back she would sit down and try to figure out her bloody radiator.
Her room would be far too stuffy with both the door and window shut, which
lately had been more and more frequently the case. If the cold really were
settling in, it didn’t leave her much time to find that illusive balance.
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