Maybe Flowers Would Grow Soon
Ilike to walk.1 This comes from my mom. Her legs are longer than mine, but when we walk together they do not cover more area than mine do. I know this must be some type of magic, miracle, resulting from our closeness. I first discovered it in the sixth grade when we hiked together in Wyoming, in Yellowstone, and our feet fell next to each other at every step.
When people, my mom, me, get upset, walking is sometimes the only answer. Things will seem especially wrong and we will put down our wine. This always means trouble, to put down our wine. We pull out the leash. We say, Come on, Commiskey. He gets very excited, running around the house, jumping into our laps. My mom likes to walk for miles when the winter finally ends.2 We walk in the bright, bright sun and we do not bring any sunglasses, we let it hit our eyes. We let it in. A horribleness lifts when the tops of our heads warm up, and then our shoulders, and then the rest.
It is hard to pretend that seasonal depression does not affect you when you are already sad, sensitive, crumbling at the touch.
Winter lasts years3 and then it is over.4