Freezing wintry cold.
I wait. With the other children, but apart. As always.
At the bus-stop.
I wait for the heavy doors to swing open, and I step up the black rubbery steps. Out of the freezing wintry cold and into the only slightly warmer space of the school-bus. Hurry down the aisle, stepping carefully over the floor’s black ridged surface as I search for an empty seat. If I turn and look back up the aisle? I will see little white reverse footprints . . . the release of packed snow from the treads of my shoes.
My feet? Are numb.
It is cold where I live. Very cold.
Western Michigan. But also? My house.
Very cold.
I am never dressed warmly enough.
I huddle against the window. The bus lurches forward.
The window is covered with a thick whorled layer of ice. Carefully, into this ice, I press my thumb. Just at eye level.
I hold my thumb there until it hurts with cold, and until the tiny river of melted water that drips from beneath my thumb has refrozen in a miniature icicle profile down the glass.
I remove my hand.
A perfect small oval onto the world.
I watch the world.
I cannot see it all.
Just little brilliant flashing bits of color and movement and energy.
Through this small little window in a window.
It soothes me.
And I stare.
School is warm. It is my favorite place to be.
I have only recently become aware that warm cannot be taken for granted.
School is warm.
I hate recess.
The bus ride home is louder and more chaotic. There is jostling and yelling and talking.
No one talks to me.
I am small. Small enough to squeeze through the others and find a seat near the back. By the window.
In the afternoons? There is no ice on the windows, and I stare at the whole world as it rushes by.
I can see everything.
A big window onto the world.
And the bus hurries through this world, delivering other people to their parts of this world. I watch as the students leap from the bus and run into their houses. Into the warm embrace of their houses.
Home.
Not yet.
The bus continues. I stare out the window. There is so much world to see.
So much that is not my world . . . not my part.
And then, through the big school-bus window, I see my street. My yard. My house.
My part of the world.
I walk down the black-ridged aisle, step down the black rubber steps, and into my part of the world.
It is cold in my part of the world.
Western Michigan. But also? My house.
Freezing cold.
I climb the steps.
And I am inside.
My house.
And as I stand, my perspective changes. Shifts. My view is diminished and tightened and reduced.
Less.
The view of the world from my house?
Is like looking through a tiny thumbprint oval in a larger frosted pane.
But not a thumbprint of my making.
Instead a thumb pressed down upon me. Against the glass.
The world is out there. But I can only see a tiny never-changing part.
And I am not soothed.
And I am cold.
And I am small.
For such a short gal, you sure rock my world in big ol’ ways.
Awwww . . . I am all blushing.
You are a nerd.
Totally fun-sized.
Still a nerd.
Nerds are candy, you know.
Tasty little sour-sweet morsels.
I will take that.
I knew you would take it that way.
Because of your awesome and all.
Also: yum!
:(
On a side note, it’s hotter than hell here and now I’m freezing.
Do you know how incredibly weird I think it is that I am allergic to cold as an adult?
Very weird.
Well done. Beautifully done. I feel all of it.
Mostly? Sigh. Deep and heavy sigh.
Much love to you, sighing one.
Much love.
Wow, you and I were in the same zone today. I just started writing on my blog again and wrote 2 parts of a 3 part post. Seriously, because you inspired me to go back to it.
Don’t mean to self promote, honestly. But breeze by it someday, if you have time.
That was beautifully done, btw. What was it with today and mooning over the past. I was there, time-flux-space-continum. Or some geeky freakin shit like that :)
Sniff. I lift a kleenex in your honor.
I spend a lot of time in the past.
Well, not in it. But looking at it.
And I will visit. Not tonight, as I have house-guests . . . but soon!
So this could sound TOTALLY weird, but your writing about your childhood makes me understand my Mama’s childhood better. Seems like you both had very similar childhood’s but she has only briefly discussed them with me so I could be wrong but still GREAT WRITING!
Where did your mom grow up?
And when?
And thank you!
You are such a gifted writer. This post made my stomach hurt and my fists clench for you. Thank you for sharing you soul. I am humbled.
I am glad the post worked for you.
I was hoping for just that result.
I’m remembering the box in your mom’s garage. That may be harsh, but it’s just sick that the bus ride was melancholy, but getting off the bus was so much worse. I like what you’ve become in spite of/because of…well, I kinda feel like I know you anyway. You do have a knack for making people feel connected with you. I’m gonna stop now. LOVE.
I love that we are connected.
Love that.
I only recently found your blog and really like it! It seems like your childhood and my husband’s childhood was similar in many ways. He used to wear a winter hat to bed and would wake up to see his breath. He is also allergic to being cold as an adult.
I bet bus drivers can tell how happy a kid’s home is by watching them get from the their bus doors to their house doors.
I remember the hats and the morning’s breath visible in the bedroom air.
So do all of my siblings. But none of them are allergic to cold.
Just me.
They have other maladies.
Sigh.
Simultaneously sad and beautiful.
Thank you.
No wonder you think you are allergic to cold.
This gives me a little perspective about maybe why my old man keeps it warm warm warm in here all winter long while I sit around getting anxious about the heating bill. Hmmm.
Thanks, as always.
I have no time this morning. I will be back later.
But I do not think I am allergic to cold.
I am fucking allergic to cold . . . cold urticaria, it’s called.
And it sucks.
I stand corrected. That *does* suck. Still, no wonder you are allergic to cold.
I love how Wikipedia summarizes it by saying “The best treatment for this allergy is avoiding exposure to cold temperature.” Holy frustrating! TELL ME SOMETHING I DON’T ALREADY KNOW, PEOPLE. Sorry, that really sucks, Kris.
Yes.
The allergy appeared right after I stopped nursing Kallan. I was told at that time that there was not much to be done, and that perhaps the allergy would go away as spontaneously as it had appeared.
Kallan just turned 9.
Sigh.
Sorry. Didn’t mean to be bitchy.
But I cannot tell you the number of times over the past people have doubted me.
And that annoys me.
Oh, hey, I’m fine with you being bitchy about it, and I didn’t think you were, anyway. I can imagine how you feel. I’ve lived forever with various mysterious ailments that are damn sure all connected but can I find one single medical provider to look at me as a full human being, all connected? No.
Want to let you know, though, that I didn’t read carefully and thought you had said you thought you were allergic to cold. When I read back, you clearly say you ARE allergic to cold, so that’s my mistake, seriously. I wouldn’t have intentionally dismissed what you said. Although, if I were you I’d think that my *thinking* you said you thought it instead of just having it was dismissive enough. So, I’m sorry for that, all around, no matter what. My apologies.
Way too big an apology.
I think I am allergic to big apologies.
Ha! Now it’s me who submitted a comment and it’s nowhere to be found. Let me try again.
Hey, OK with me for you to be bitchy, it’s my fault. And I didn’t think you were bitchy anyway. I apologize for making you feel you had been doubted. It wasn’t my intention, not at all. I get on some level how you must feel. I have a multitude of mysterious symptoms that are clearly all connected but can I find one medical provider to look at me as a whole human being and connect them all? No.
I thought you had said in your post that you thought you were allergic to cold. When I looked back, you clearly said you ARE allergic to cold. So it is my mistake. The last thing I’d want to do is dismiss what you said, but having said that, if I were you, I’d think that my *thinking* that you thought you were allergic rather than just being allergic was dismissal enough. So my fault, and I’m sorry either way.
Approved it, and now here it is again!
Your apology is following me around, demanding to be heard!
Seriously, I think I am allergic to big apologies.
Love you. I was only bitchy for an instant.
Oh yay, now I’m the crazy overly apologetic lady. Oh well.
I didn’t know you had moderation on your comments, sister! Whoo, you are quick. How do you even do that?? I could never handle moderating, and I get an average of three fucking comments on my posts. Although I did go all control-freakish about a comment earlier this week. Maybe I really am the crazy lady.
I guess if you *think* you are allergic to big apologies, there’s room for me to wiggle around and be crazy up in here.
Love you back. Stay warm.
I don’t moderate all of my comments, but new commenters always go to moderation their first time.
And comments with lots of links to outside sources come to me first.
And then WordPress just seems to pick out random other comments it thinks need my attention.
Like yours. Sorry about that.
I blame my craziness on WordPress, then.
Although, ha! Not so crazy. I have a new email address (runawaysentence@gmail.com, who’da thunk it?) that I’ve been intermittently remembering to use. So that’s probably what happened, and WordPress is not random but rather quite brilliant in figuring that out.
What if I had changed my email address in order to come up in here and do some crazy (er, -ier) bullshit commenting? You are PROTECTED. Smart blogger, you.
I do like a little protection.
I get some crazies.
I know! Who’d have thought?
I love words.
I love them like people love food.
Put beautifully together – even when they evoke such a heartache image – is music.
Beautiful, bittersweet music in minor keys.
Sad songs are sometimes lovely.
Not so danceable, but lovely.
Thank you.
So I am sitting here with a BIG blog post I want to write. Something that has been sitting and churning in my mind. I need inspiration. I need…something. So i head over and start reading blogs out of my reader. I get to Pretty All True.
Remember when I said “explode a moment on paper”. This one was an A-bomb.
Excuse me while I go write. Mission get Inspiration? Accomplished.
Big happiness that I have inspired you!
I am so glad.
Ah, that I had nothing else to do all day everyday except read things you write. I wish you’d write more; I know it’s almost a daily thing, your posting, but if you wrote a book, I’d be first in line. So so glad I found this blog and you.
I’m not a for real stalker, just in case you were wondering. ;)
OK, first?
I post every day. Not almost every day. Every day.
If I write a book? And by the way? As if.
It would look a lot like Pretty All True.
So you’re ahead of the game.
My mistake on the daily thing. I love Pretty All True. I guess that’s enough said.
Plenty.
Love you.
I read these posts, and I just want to hug you. I am left without words. Are you putting these in a book? molly
Wait . . . is this not a book?
You people paid, right?
Cause this shit’s not free.
Snort.
You sure know how to tell a story, Kris. Love reading your blog.
Thanks for the love!
I love love.