At times, I go to bed early with the wind shrilly pounding the house, threatening to come in. There’s no-comfort there, and I wish I could end it. I chase distractions to calm and sedate; Netflix and blankets should make it hard to hear. But the truth is, it’s difficult to forget. And if I think about it, even for a second, it sounds like someone is pounding at the door. Almost as hard as my heart is beating. Almost as dramatically as the knot forming in my throat.

I want to believe that if I open the door there can be quiet. And for any other thing to knock, that would be true. But I’ve thought this all before, so I reach to take a sip of something warm, and stare out the shuddering window into the formless night.

A minute passes.

Maybe two.

“Are you sure it won’t go away if you ask it? Have you tried talking to it recently?”

Some days I open the door and watch my living room and house be covered in ice and winter. It feels strange. Relief slowly fades replaced by cold and discomfort. Then pain and longing for independence and warmth. It can take months for the whole place to dry out completely. Every time it’s all a little worse for the wear.

Take a sip of something warm, hold your breath. Wait until the pounding of your heart matches the wind against the door. Breath out. Bask in your silence.