I stare out my window
rain splattering the peeling panels,
chips of old summer paint now gone with the wind.
It should be winter there right now.
A chill ripples through my skin
like a hand reaching into my flesh
tickling my heart and frosting my core.
It reminds me of you,
all the years of your love
and all the notes left on my pillow in the morning,
when I'd awake and fine no one there
because work suddenly became more important to you.

I remember that you used to love winter.
You used to chase me around the yard with snowballs,
you used to beg me to make snow angels with you,
and you used to sing Christmas songs at the top of your lungs,
(always off key.)
I remember how you used to brush your fingers against my face
and tell me tales of your love for the snow.
I open the window,
the rain sprinkiling my already damp cheeks.
After you vanished into the ground,
encased in a pine box,
I moved.
I was afraid of the approunching chill-
of the truths that I was too busy to accept.
So i stuffed them into a box in the corner of my mind
and marked them "too painful to deal with".
Now,
there are no seasons here.
I sigh as the water runs down my face.
Why can't you be snow?

Your son walks in the room
and whisphers,
"Mommy, are you ok?"
I smile at him and nod,
the smile barely reaching my eyes.
He frowns-
YOUR frown,
and leaves me to finish unpacking the dust covered memories.