It came a little past midnight. Our eyes poked through the blinds and watched it fall like rain.
The lights lit the streets as we watched them say their goodbyes. It'd been so long since we had anything like it. So we slipped boots over our feet and wondered outside to watch the sky fall. We were like children. Swooning almost like idiots. Our ears red, but eyes wide.
I stood there thinking about home. Where the snow fell by the foot and school wasn't cancelled at the first sight of white. Even though life looked a little bit different standing there, it seemed to not matter how craggy and misshapen it all was. Or is. Or had been once. It didn't matter what mistake I'd make the next day, or how utterly, hilariously I fail at life. Every single time.
I listened to what life was telling me in that very moment, which was to slow down and just accept things the way they were because things were okay. It was saying that it's okay to be tired of trying to fit into some mould that we simply can't shape and contort our bodies and personalities to fit into. Like pants. Sometimes. Most of the time.
That night we slept cold and satisfied, with our pajamas still somewhat wet. The next days had a lot to offer. Almost more than our hands could carry. And not much sleep. Or room in our beds.
But now I'm still writing letters, wearing a palm tree, and praying that God will let me be singing when the evening comes. All one gulp at a time.
