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I cried again last night. There is no
way of knowing when spring will finally come and the sun will break through the
mask of clouds that forms for the majority of Vermont’s
long year. I feel as though I wait for a wish that will never come true. For
how can it? There seems to be no end and no escape. The only thing that keeps
me from falling into a pit of nothingness is the light of memories. The
memories of the warm summers and the fairytale back roads leading to hidden
scenery that now seems so unreal. Scattered with wild flowers and a symphony of
bird songs. I sit waiting for the time when I can feel the sun radiate into my
skin and warm me to my heart.

The faces of these small towns, plastered pale and gray, wait with me. Some say
they love the cold, the snow. That is all fine if they say so, but then why do
so many of their faces reflect my despair for the dismal darkness that is a
definition for this setting?

But there is more than the gray, but the little rural towns that are scattered
with a few houses and lined with the great distances. The short days that bring
upon a darkened night with nowhere to go but home, for no place remains open
and welcome in the late night but the warm woodstove hearth.

I cried again last night. For the summer that seems to become more distant as
the hours, the days, pass. As I wait for the excitement to come, and a place to
go, and the sun to shine. I wait, and hope, that my wishes will come alive. I
don’t want to cry tonight.

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