I remember nights like this. I remember them on a level I don’t discuss with people.
The cold. The still air that sits heavily upon my bones.
I stare into the sky and watch my breath make a mist into the black and piercing white curtain of nightfall. Into the cold, it fades like I once did. Disappearing into nothingness. Pulling the threads and icy fingers around my body and hating the quake in my body. The distance holds the ghost of footsteps upon dead leaves, the fleet footfall of deer, the heavier sound of an angry parent.
I remember them and inhale the air to clean out the muck in my lungs. There is a sharp stab at the back of my throat and I fall back against the wood of the porch. The cold slats of wood are smoother than they should be. I was looking for the rough imbalance of limb.
When I blink, the light from my table is a soft warmth calling me inside where the fire quietly burns hot cinders to ash. The night has shifted. The ghosts are quiet now, and my bare feet whisper upon my deck as I shuffle inside.