Silently, she sat alone in the dark, watching the snowfall past the picture window. The snow fell, taking its time to reach the pile that was turning from inches into feet. The dull glow of the lamp reflected on the window, and she squinted her eyes to see down the lit street. The snow reflected the light of the street lamps, casting shadows into tire tracks and footprints.
She stood up, careful not to jar her mug of tea, and walked towards the lamp, feeling for the switch. With a click, she went back to the wooden chair, and wrapped herself back up into the blanket. She sat, her knee folded underneath her, and her chin resting upon her other knee. Taking a deep breath, she tried to feel tired; she tried to feel something, something other than sorrow and frustration.
She thought that at this age, she would be good enough for the world, good enough for the world to see that she even had potential. But, as it was, she felt as though she was not even good enough for herself. She gripped her cup of tea and inhaled the lemon scent, letting the warmth spread down her fingers, and up her arms, before cautiously taking a sip.
The tea went down bitterly, burning along the way, but the flavor made the pain a welcome sacrifice. With the light off, the glowing street lamps were anything but enough light to read her book by—she closed it with a dulled snap, trying not to make a sound, and pushed it away from her towards the center of the table. The cover of the book was etched with a bee the size of a quarter in the bottom right hand corner; her finger traced the outline while she attempted another wary swallow of her tea.
She looked back to the snowy landscape forming in her front yard— at the plows that were racing around, trying to keep the snow contained like a child would with sand in a moat on the beach. She laughed to herself, thinking of how we try so desperately to contain the things that want so badly to be let out.
