beginning of nowhere

beginning of nowhere

it's christmas. it's christmas again. she knows it's christmas. she knows which house is the house where her christmas will be. it's the one on the corner with the green light in the window. it's not home. it's where she's going, but it's not home. it's nowhere. her future. her past. the place she goes where the family is. the place where the green window means forgetting, means remembering, means too much music, too much food, too many broken dreams and forgotten embraces. winter sucks out all the warmth of her body with its wind but she won't let go of her umbrella. she can't, she needs it. she wishes when she got in there to that christmas that she could keep the umbrella open and twirling at her shoulder. it would make things better. safer. she doesn't know where she picked the umbrella up, but it's the perfect thing tonight. for now. for christmas. it shields her. they are her family, true, but she doesn't really even know them. not really. she wishes she did. she wishes she could. she has tried, but what can you do? they are not from the same part of the calendar as she is. her eyes are winter eyes. her eyes see color in the pure form -- if there is any. and there rarely is. she knows her clothes are not right for the occasion. this red is like something you would find on a present beneath a tree. then she thinks about this. maybe that is what she should do, lay under the damned christmas tree. plant herself there on top of all of those horribly shiny boxes of junk. would her family even notice? most of the time they act like she is invisible. under the tree in her dress and torn fishnet stockings, would they even notice? or would they just keep watching television. that same program they watch every year with their eyes shut and their ears throbbing like little drums to the sounds coming from the actors mouths about how christmas is supposed to be so bloody redemptive. she has nowhere to go. nowhere else. that door waits. the wind blows at her fabulous umbrella. she cannot stay out here. she has tromped all the way across the city to get here. she must go in. she must. she just wishes there were someone here, someone who could stand in the way, and, for once, stop her! but there isn't. it is christmas. it is the end of winter's heart and the beinning of nowhere. she keeps walking through the wind and the grey and can already here the sounds from the television of the actors singing, their voices rising pure and translucent, like some kind glass that is in perfect harmony with its surroundings and will only break if the right person screams at the right pitch. and she cannot scream. all she can do is twirl the umbrella. so she does. it makes her feel better. for awhile, at least.