Oh, how I abandoned you these last few months for what other activities I am not entirely sure. Fortunately, I have found my hands being put back to work with pen and paper scribblings so perhaps I do indeed have more to say. Ice and snow and stinging wind have been my recent curses and after a too long walk through the thick of it, I came to write this piece, which I call fiction though it could just as easily be deemed something else. Cross your fingers, toes and organs that the great thaw comes soon for this seafarer has been frozen for too great a time.
This Was A Winter
Written by Chelsea Marie Hicks
The cold bit me today and I bled red into the snow. It was a faint pink marking like the color of a healed scar on ivory skin, a blotch in the powder blanket that had been deceiving my limbs as to the depth of the ground.
Today I buried my mother in a field somewhere though she had yet to die. We haven’t spoken in years and yet I could feel her pulse slow-ly, slow-ly surrounding me amidst the brittle branches. Perhaps it was her blood, not mine, pinking the white or maybe it was the drippings of the trees sweating to stay firm against the wind.
I couldn’t find the cut that would solve these mysteries and so I trudged in search of a shelter from the up-drifting snow coating the wool of my jacket and highlighting white the chocolate of my hair.
This winter I wanted to be warmed by fire and tea leaves steeping, but there wasn’t a thing that could keep my skin from chipping and my veins from beating cold blood.
This was a winter of ice and shakes and numb fingertips curling to a fist that might be hot.
This was a winter where even the branches scratching my windowpane kept their secrets close.
This was a winter where healing could only begin with a clot.