cabin fever

It's a time of hibernation. It's been snowing heavily for two days now, it's dark at 3:30pm. I'm stuck in this house without a car and the roads not safe to bike. I make borscht and cornbread and sauerkraut and poutine and curries. I lose myself in the newest Oondatje novel, I'm nearing the end and dreading the resurfacing from the world he created in my head. I'm beading earrings while listening to shows on the prehistory of the vienna woods, in german. Brushing up. I go for two walks a day in the forest, visit my favourite birches and that big protective hemlock. The red of the mountain ash berries a gorgeous contrast in all the black and white. I actually really love the snowfall, it reminds me of growing up in Prince George, of those quiet five acres and my birthday and Tchaikovsky and coming inside from playing to find a magical christmas my mother created out of thin air. Gold paint and the smell of cloves and real candles on the tree and red ribbon and vintage glass decorations.
We hear bombs in the mornings from the backside of the ski hill above us, and it makes me think of the oondatje novel, how the wars sucked people up into them, no matter what and in so many ways, and I wonder about my older family members and what stories they carry.
I feel like calling my father and asking if he'll buy property with me and ham. It's easy asking when there's nothing to lose. Except this is a thing I really want, him retired and close by and land. So maybe it's just easy asking when I know what the response will be.
I opened my inbox and there were two new emails from two past lovers. Sweet dear men. Living other lives. The only two who still stay in occasional contact. A request from one for a chat, a catch up, and then a bomb in the letter from john. That man can make me so upset and so angry and decimated, over and over. But even in this electronic message, I can see his mannerism and read his thought pattern. I know he wrote and deleted a few times over, maybe left the letter for a day, I know he pulled at his lower lip with thumb and index in thought. And all just to make it sound so light and casual, knowing what the news of his upcoming marriage to a 27 year old aerialist will do to me, "oh, did I tell you...?", but not wanting to acknowledge any responsibility towards each other's feelings anymore by presenting the news differently. I am happy with hamish and don't wish for another. I guess why it hurts is that I gave every bit of myself to J and wanted a life with him so badly and then was made to feel unworthy of it or that I had fucked up so many times that I shattered those chances. That who I was made him back out of promises made and dreams created. And while I wasn't innocent of aggravations and anxieties, he wasn't either but somehow he always came out squeaky clean of guilt. It's like he brushed off his untreated mental illness and his secrecy and his cutting, dissecting analysies and his broken promises as if they were trivialities.
I walked out into the dark woods just now, yelled.
I look forward to a big bustling hug from my dear chaotic, surround sound, full throttle, loves me to pieces, short and strong, kiwi boyfriend any moment now.
He doesn't keep tabs on the global state of polio eradication, or go for long meditative walks, nor delve with curiosity into human foibles or the  misleading nature of research, but damn, he wants me to be deliriously happy and he gives me everything he's got.