a morning in the life of:
me.

--

I make little books. I fold paper and gently tear the edges and neatly pile the bundle together and staple the center crease. The pages are white, the cover is white, the back page is white. The whole process gets me a little bit closer to snow mornings. The kind that wake you with cold perfume, with a brightness and openness and everywhere that does not go away. It is blinding; that light that suspends a middle grey wrapped up in a huge blanket of snow outside.

The blanket left from the night before that fell and piled in slow motion and neatly placed and perfectly covered your back yard; made from fluffs of sticky angel fuzz. The blanket that while I was sleeping did not make a sound, not one single sound in all of its gigantic creation. It tiptoed, it feathered, it doodled and doddled and tickled and followed and kissed and fell in unblinking amazement. The blanket that I hope and hope and hope will not be changed or disappear within the time it takes to get out of my pyjamas, into some clothes and downstairs where other obstacles will surely present themselves. One thing at a time.

The blanket that sits outside waiting patiently for me while my mother and father insist that I eat breakfast and I wrestle with the idea anyway, even sitting there eating cereal and staring out the bright glass that pinches the walls above the sink. I stare out every window and if for a moment I have caught myself, even for a moment being pulled into the distraction and luring world of cereal box characters or sounds from the television, I hold steady. I will not be moved; I stay on target, focus - that bright light is literally going to swallow me up in happiness if I can JUST get outside.

The smell of the windows and that brushy black bristly stuff that is tucked in at the bottom of the door; the cold and comforting metal that bridges the glass and handles and squares and shapes holding it all together. The door that will in moments enable me a sort of feedom I have been born to discover. There I am, impatiently staring and determined not to hear or be moved by anything while someone is squeezing me into a snowsuit with the mittens and the hat and the scarf and the boots. Nothing will remove that light from my me. From that first moment upon waking till that door opens and I am free to change and create and throw myself into that world; the absolute only thing that I can think about is snow.