Through Myself and Back Again
Only This
The holiday time has passed and the season no longer tastes of tangerines and clementines. The house no longer smells of cinnamon and cookies baking. The doorbell doesn’t ring, and friends and family no longer arrive carrying smiles before them like magi bearing gifts.
The holiday time has passed and the days ahead stretch out like old bruises. A little tender, a little sore, better than the day before but a long way from being comfortable. Time is the only treatment, but time is also what hurts.
The holiday time has passed and outside the window even the sparrows and juncos are dispirited. The neighbors have removed the bright lights from around their windows and all the color has bled out of the world. The air by the window is cold as surgery. Spring seems a cruel myth.
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