sparrow's flight

for the last few months, i have been using a rose-scented lotion. a hand-me-down bottle, a gift my mother didn't care for. i liked it, i used it, i finished it, and i purchased something of my own. vanilla, this time.

last night, sitting at this computer, my scented hands seemed to be the final turn of the key, the tumblers all clicked over and opened me to last winter, when i sat on the blog in the dark evenings, a cup of coffee at my side, music in my ears, and my hands soft from the vanilla-scented lotion that was the only kind i could afford to buy.

dark night around me in those days, my little apartment bare and spare and snug, everything in it mine alone, even if that wasn't much. but no more stacks of things that had nothing to do with me, no more dealing with anything that wasn't directly mine in that little sanctuary. even the pantry only held what i put in it, and i took a perverse pride in its nakedness.

and so the winter evenings were spent sitting around the hearth there, telling stories in the hall we shared, answering my hunger with coffee and the vanilla scent of my hands on the keys.

it was a good start. i was as bare as my walls and cupboards, and all that clean space within me gave me so much hope. the evenings telling stories gave me courage for the days alone. i felt my feet were connected to the earth and there was nowhere that my stride could not carry me.

how did the months pass so quickly? and why does it feel as though they have wasted away everything that was useful in me? why do i feel so crammed full with dross and junk again? somehow, all my bare shelves have cheap bric-a-brac on them.

i don't want to do things the right way.

i don't want a pantry filled with things to eat that i didn't choose for myself.

i want my own path, even if it's crazed and mazed and incomprehensible. i've got the map to it, i know the way it ducks under branches and goes small to slip between brambles. and i want the hearth again, i want the stories shared in the cozy winter hall, not this place opened to the light and the dust and the noise of summer.

(and i know it doesn't matter in the long run, what i want, because the seasons turn. everything will change,and change again. crying about the loss of what was never permanent is childish.)

i have vanilla-scented hands.

give me enough night, and i will clear off my shelves with them.

i can do this without you, but oh, how i enjoyed your company.