I'm dying on a caffeine low, the cups lined up in a neat little row on my windowsill. The window isn't quite sealed off, and cold after-winter-but-not-spring air leaks into my bedroom and crawls under my sheets. Seasonal depression takes its toll, and I get sick of snow so easily. I move slower, cautiously (not quite sure what I'm cautious of anymore). I drag my feet. I scuff my shoes. My father absolutely hates the sound of soles rubbing against the floor, when you don't pick your feet off the ground, and it makes that sound. He hates that sound.

My little sister puts on the big, puffy coat that used to be mine and the snowboots that also used to be mine. She heads out into the snow with the other children of the neighborhood, and they do exactly what's expected of them: come back inside to use the bathroom almost immediately ("Why didn't you just use it before we put on all your stuff? Next time, go before!"), have a snowball fight till at least one kid starts crying and goes home early, make snowmen that don't look like real men at all, and make snow angels that don't resemble angels very much. I strain to remember the days when I was amazed by winter wonderlands, when there was wonder and hope left in the world, when I didn't need a sun to bring light to my eyes.

My breath comes in little puffs when I wait outside for the bus, and I feel like my aunt who smokes. I imagine a cigarette between my third finger and my pointer finger as I exhale air that looks like smoke and wish my lungs would melt. The lake is frozen still, and the sound of snowmobiles echoes and bounces around the ice. Sometimes, fog gathers over the lake, and it seems like there's just this giant cumulonimbus cloud hanging heavily over everything, my life, my love, my incentive to be someone.

I think it's safe to say I hate winter.