Falling

FALLING

I awaken to the digital chirps of the morning's alarm, and to the tapping of raindrops on the metal shell of the window unit. Rain, not snow. Guess it's not that cold. But since people suck that means the drive there will still be a challenge.

My feet glide into my slippers as I grope obscenely for the mobile phone, deactivating the synthetic bell. Now all I can hear is the sound of metal not giving way to the water. Over and over again. The rhythm of the morning.

I make it down the steps, one creak at a time. Rounding the corner, I see the silent, quiet, dark firebox. Nearing it, I still don't feel its familiar, lingering warmth. It's been cold for some time.

Will I go?

My attention turns to the front door. The lock is turned, and the other lock is turned, and then the knob is turned. As the door opens it's like walking under the a crowded clothesline when I was a kid, but instead of t-shirts and towels brushing my face, it's cold.

I enter the outside, still under the roof of the porch. Now, it's not just the sound of water on metal I hear. Now it's on the sidewalk. Now it's stubborn leaves. Now it's the tarp that covers the woodpile.

They don't give in. I won't give in to this water either. It's cold, but not frozen. Totally fine.

My first step, and I'm in denial. It's like that scene in "Taxi Driver," and I'm Harvey Keitel as Sport, not quite believing that Robert DeNiro as Travis Bickle has shot me in the stomach.

I take on the aspect of a toppled two-by-four. My body stiffens and joints seize. I feel the wetness of the rain on my forehead and arms as I slide down the six ice-sheeted steps in front of me.

One bruised rear end and scraped elbow later, and my fate is sealed. Back to bed.