One of my closest friends is the warmed air that pushes out of our heating vents again and again all day long. If I can’t hear for all the thoughts in my head, I hold on to that sound: the steady warming rush that seeps into me slowly and well. Over the years, I’ve figured out how to be alone. And now that sound is a foothold for me. It’s a handhold and a heart-hold, too. It’s a friend that never leaves me, that listens to the sounds no one else hears because no one else is home. It doesn’t even groan or sigh in reply on the days when my existential angst and grief reach my voice-box and tear-sorter station. It just arrives in intervals, steady as the seasons and daylight savings time.
In its absence, the cold air shows up and call for a hat.