It rains on Boxing Day
Too warm and foggy and wet
Like early April
Instead of the first true week of winter
Despite the good Christmas wine
I’m up before five
I have nightmares worthy of October horrors
So I read away my morning
Finishing a book and starting the next
Like an old version of myself
The sun comes out an hour before it sets
Like a proverb – or the inverse of one
These quiet days as the year runs out
Are painted in strokes of peace and possibility
We make plans and play pretend
That January won’t be just another Monday
I learned what Boxing Day was
From books I can’t read anymore
I catch glimpses of illustrations
And kneel alone in a Target aisle
Skimming the pages, for a moment
Mourning the balm that won’t work
Wishing I could have it anyway
I leave with the same feeling I used to have
Hiding wine behind the bedside table
Hoping he wouldn’t see
What a problem I’d really become
But I leave the books unread
And I’m nearly eight years past
Needing to hide anything in my own room
With Love,
Natalie