Having finished an exam I spent ten hours studying for, my heart is at rest–my tensions having eased. I am gazing out a rain-trodden window; the occasional flashes of thunder prompt my head up before resuming back to non-productive activity on my laptop. Yet it is here that a flash of memories overwhelm me as I stare out the window–each raindrop contributing to that. I am reminded of the month we are in: November. Up until two years ago, I would have been looking forward to an upcoming trip to Tahoe–to my beloved baby-blue cabin resting in at least two feet’s worth of illuminating snow. But just like last year, I don’t have that this year. I have no idea when we’ll be able to reclaim the place we call home–an alternative sheet of heaven used to get away from it all–to forget troubles and worries we constantly endure. I remember how I’d be wrapped up in a blanket during this time, curled up near a heater emitting an eternal, physical sense of warmth as I basked in further triggered memories. The heater, as I remember it, was located by a window door panel, just under a cute, white vintage chair and table set. Rather than the gloomy feeling of longing rain presented, I would have been watching bits of snow twinkle down into a piles of magic on the pine trees and Mother Earth–a beauty you never get tired of.
I miss the comfort it brought me similar to a mother’s loving arms.
I miss the reassurance it brought me similar to a father’s strengthening arms.
I miss the emotional catharsis it brought me.
I miss my Tahoe.