Work Text:
When Winter Bites
We eat by candlelight in winter, when the snow has grown harshly upon the hardened earth, and frigid ice washes upon the waning windows.
Silence blurs the dark of day into the darkness of heavy evening, carrying an imminent exhaustion with each gust of punishing wind. We are frozen in our bones - their hardness cracking and creaking with each testing movement we undertake through the haze of our hunger.
We are broken beings when winter comes, waiting for the frailty of summer to bloom once more, for the earth to ease into beautiful harvest and the days to run longer than any snow-bitten night.
But, as the bitter memory of a blistering sun fades, we drown our chill in diluted wine, praying we do not lose sight of a better life.
“Eat, please.” my father pleads, the watery stew laden in our cracked bowls. We ate the last of our stale bread yesterday, and the last of the butter some weeks ago. My stomach turns at the though of another spoonful, and yet I scoop the murky broth with a rusting spoon, and salivate as it’s warmth slips down my throat. I am starving; in body and in soul, in mind and in essence. Bones poke from beneath my pallid skin, and I wince at the growing ache as they chafe on the coarse cotton of my clothes.
I imagine scratches, stretching along my back. Deep and purplish, they do not bleed. I fear my blood may have frozen with the green of autumn, and the crimson leaves that once spilled from the sky.
Cutting into the gutter of my imagination, I can almost smell the leaves as they perished upon the morning dew that rolled along the grass each night, before it became too cold for nature to nurture the land. I can see the veins of their perfect structures, entangling and entwining with the labyrinth of their precious skin. I can see the patterns of their uniqueness, each and every one different, and yet uniform in some age old way. Archaic, I think some would say.
“Come, now.” my mother whispers as she guides my siblings to their creaking cots, where they will hide beneath thin bedding until morning breaks. Her voice is hoarse, her face burnt from the cruel bite of unrelenting, uncaring wind. They slide from their seats, their numb feet scuttling along the frozen floor. I am sure they are already asleep, and have been, for that matter, for a number of weeks.
They are weak, small children, when winter comes. Their bodies are frail and unused to the swallowing winters we weather. Winter takes them in their sleep, steals them from the promise of warmth, and takes them to frozen graves no bigger than their beds are wide. Mothers scream with silent voices when they find them, blue beneath their sheets. Fathers don their thickest coats, and prepare to dig into unyielding earth, a space small enough for a small body. I do not know which is worse, the sight of a dead child, succumbed to the frost, or the fathers, wading into the unkind sea of snow that builds a foot higher each night, shovel balanced on their heavy shoulders. They are gone all day, when the day comes to take them. Silence waits for their return, for them to scoop their child once more into their arms. The mothers fade into a state of unconsciousness, their eyes primed open by the need to see their child one last time. One last kiss upon their cold foreheads. One last whisper of sweet dreams.
At least, that is what I imagine it to be in every other household.
“Stock the fire, would you?” my father asks. Exhaustion sits behind his eyes. A beard, once full with the health of a heavy man, only highlights the sunken sockets of his face. I nod. It is the least I can do.
I stand, pushing my empty bowl away as I wince at the frost that immediately engulfs my feet, freezing me once more. I slip along the rug, hardened with stale water that drops from our hats and scarfs and coats and boots as we rush in at the end of each day. It smells damp, and yet there is nothing we can do but thank it isn’t ice.
The fire struggles to burn. Choking on its own warmth, it’s smothered by our constant need for heat. Sometimes, I pity it. Imagine it a person, working tirelessly through hard months only to be neglected in the height of shining summer. I envy it, too. Wish I were able to take its place and bathe between the coals of its company. I throw the small black lumps of energy into its pitiful stomach, and poke at it with a length of sleek steel until it swallows its meal and gives us what we want. I nurture it for a while, ensuring it does not fall away from its purpose, as many things tend to do when hope is taken by the crispness of a white, concrete hell.
I stand, brushing at my knees. When I turn back, I see that my parents have fallen asleep at the table, their arms tucked tightly beneath their heads. I step over cautiously, draping a blanket on their shoulders and blowing out the candles before retreating into the comfort of my room. From the doorway, I watch the burning light of the quiet fire dance upon the creases and corners of the room. I pull the door closed.
I like the darkness, when I am alone. I bathe in it’s neutrality, and pour my aching wants into its depthless hold. I reach for it, when there is nothing else to touch. I yearn for it, when the mellow set of another day burns my tired sight.
I slip between the unwelcoming layers of my bed, and ease my head onto a stiff pillow. I cannot see, but I can feel the breath curl before my face, cracking in the air. I close my eyes and see stretching meadows, stuffed with the overlapping hues of fresh flowers. I can smell their simple scent, and taste their bitterness in my throat.
We eat by candlelight in winter, where the flowers neglect to grow.