The First Day of Winter.

The First Day of Winter

She covered the bathroom floor with a drop cloth, draped it over the tub, the toilet, the sink, tucked it into the spool of the toilet paper holder, and started painting.

The room was dingy gray in all the corners, with old water stains molding above the shower.

It was her new apartment and this was her new town, but she hadn’t even seen any of it yet, except the neighborhood grocery and the paint store in the row of shops down the street. And she hadn’t met any of the neighbors, because the building’s other two apartments were empty.

It was a great place.

It was a good place.

It was a shit hole, but she was making it better with every wall she finished painting over.

She was painting the place in exchange for half of the first month’s rent, but as it transformed by her own hand it was becoming much more.

She’d wanted to go away to college.

She’d been struggling with seasonal depression and panic attacks all of her life, and the winters in Michigan were just too damned dark. So, every winter she’d crawl into a hole in the earth so deep she could sleep through the noise of the family—the fighting and shouting, the crying , the TV, and them calling her name down the steps into the basement.

“It’s the winter that ages a person,” her father had told her once. “People who live near the equator never die of natural causes.”

But she couldn’t get a decent education on the equator, so she went to school in North Carolina, where spring would come sooner, and winters were shorter. Less dreadful.

She mixed the paint in the can, musing to herself (inside her head) that when the year is done old man winter always whispers to spring how the short time they shared together was “the best time of my life.” Spring laments that it couldn’t stay long enough to see its seeds bear fruit, and summer just slips away, like dusk coming on when you’re a child.

But fall…

Fall complains to no one, and dies with a glorious dignity to the last leaf, and then it’s winter.

Again.

These were the thoughts that she rolled into the old plaster as she painted the four walls, cutting in around the window, the baseboards, and behind the toilet.

She closed the door behind her so she wouldn’t drip on the floors and painted the door frame, the old header above the window, the door, and half of the white marble doorknob before she realized how precious it was.

She couldn’t get it off—no rags or paper towels. No toilet paper, yet. So, somewhat defeated, she carefully painted the whole thing and then started cleaning up, pulling up and folding the drop cloths and thinking about how much warmer it would be here. Especially after the landlord turns the heat on...

She scanned the little room. It was done—and this was the last room.

She put the brush in the pan with the roller and stood there for a moment, listening to the wind gathering outside and then she turned to leave, but the knob was still tacky to the touch.

“Stupid… stupid… stupid…” she muttered at herself.

And then she just... froze.

Through the window, the glass just beginning to fog from her breath and perspiration, she could see a single dry and mottled leaf hanging from a bare limb outside, flapping around in the crisp evening air. It was going to fall. Just you see...

It was going to fall.

And then they’d all be gone.

And then it would be winter again.

She could hear her heart in her ears. She was shaking—wringing her hands, rubbing them together in a speechless panic. The can tipped over on the tile floor. The brush lay in front of it, soaking in a pool of white paint looking up at her blankly from the floor.

Then, after some time had passed, the leaf was gone, and the sun had fallen with it.

And finally, she talked herself down, too.

"It's okay. Everything is okay."

It was just a doorknob. She could repaint it, or she could live with the fingerprints. It didn’t matter. “It doesn’t matter. It’s probably dry now anyway. See? It’s dry. I just need some air...”

She reached out and took hold of the knob and pulled.

Nothing.

She pulled harder.

Nothing.

It wouldn't budge.

She realized she'd painted it shut.

And then the cold set in.