SOMETIME IN THE NIGHT, OR PERHAPS THE MORNING

I’m at the end of my street and it’s nighttime and I’m wearing my winter coat even though it's warm outside and that’s all I can really tell you about the situation. Perhaps by habit I begin walking up the road, towards my house. It starts to get warmer with each step, but it's never so much that I feel the need to take my coat off. And then I reach the slight bend and come up the hill and there it is.

Do you remember, after a long trip or a day out, you’d drive up your street and your whole body would settle, just a bit, because you’re home now? I’m lucky enough to have that, I know, but I realized that I used to think that feeling was love. Now I believe it came from a love of familiarity. 

And as my house comes into view, I find that warmth missing, replaced with something else

But my house is not my house—the windows are eyes, 10 blinking, roaming eyes, with fire in them. The door is smiling, licks of smoke seeping through its lips, and the roof is waving in the breeze as wildly as hair in the wind and the walkway and driveway are open, loving arms, beckoning me in, in, in. There are promises of comfort and shelter from wild dreams and coffee to soothe the guilt of late mornings and the ache of early ones. It promises nothing but love and pulls in, in, in.

But I am mad at it. 

Why? This place is my world, now. But I am mad at the world and its choices. Even if I know they are the right choices they are not my choices. This is such a distinction that only I find necessary.

Do I enter? I consider. Then a plume of fire breaks through the top right window; tears stream down it, the other eyes widen in fear.

I hear that you cannot stay mad, truly mad, at the people you love. But what about the things you love? The places? Is there such a comparison?

I walk forward, zipping my coat all the way up to my chin and the house sighs. I reach for the door and it opens and the minute I step inside, it is ice cold. 

No fire. No smoke. No heat. It is quiet and unmoving and when I turn around to look at the door it does not smile back at me. 

The house, my house, is so empty. Where is the comfort and warmth and love I was promised? All I have is this coat. Then there is a noise, a whisper, in the living room and I walk towards it.

 It is there I see a fireplace. It’s gas—all I have to do is flip the switch. I do. And then there’s a fire. It’s weak and insignificant and offers no warmth but I am not mad at it because it is mine.

I cannot stay mad at it, just as it cannot stay mad at me.