Finally, I could not breathe inside it anymore.
So I put on my thickest coat, wrapped a scarf around my neck, and pulled on my only good winter boots.
They were old but sturdy, black leather with fleece lining, the kind of boots I had bought after slipping on hospital steps three winters earlier. They had carried me through icy parking lots, double shifts, and late-night walks home when the bus was delayed.
I did not know where I was going.
I just needed to move.
Snow fell in soft, steady sheets over the neighborhood. Christmas lights blurred through the storm, red and gold and blue against the white. Through windows, I saw families at tables. Children running through living rooms. Someone carrying a tray of cookies. A man helping a woman hang one last ornament.
Every glimpse felt like pressing a bruise.
I walked until my neighborhood ended and the streets grew quieter.
Then I reached Bellweather Park.
In summer, it was full of joggers and picnic blankets. That night, it was nearly empty, the benches crusted with snow, the trees standing black and thin beneath the frozen sky.
