The Southerly

I first met the icy wind from the south when I was young. She came whipping across the baron plain at home, unwelcome, unexpected, unwavering. Her thoughts were dark, her mind persistent, the sound of her arrival rattling. I’d crawl into bed, throw the covers over me and snuggle back in, warm, protected, my back turned to her cold gusts.

Through school she’d show up again, not often, but always noted. Like a consuming film, engrossing and exciting, then damaging, she’d leave a path of snow and sleet in her wake. And it always took me a while to melt again.

With each birthday I had she’d show up once again, a constant presence, striking fierce each time I’d turn a corner in the city, darting between buildings, striding down alleyways. She was a terrible friend, one you could never imagine, one who tells you what you don’t want, seeks cracks in your facade where there are none, and tries to claw at your foundations. She’d ask me for forgiveness, calming down, smoothing in the sunshine, a false fortress. I’d defend her, telling myself I loved her chilly morning routine, long, cold days, and icy midnight wakeup calls.

I’d never liked the cold much, but I’d always found her pretty. So I’d justify her bitterly breeze, though it froze me to the bones. I’d see the beauty, the vulnerability in the soft winter sun shining through, and I’d ignore the razor edges of her gusts. I always thought I would be ok, and I could walk away.

Until I realised I hadn’t. Years after she first chilled my limbs, I think about the times she’s gripped me, then left me, and always come back again. This icy wind from the south lingers, she gets under my skin, and starts to eat away at my thoughts. She’s the chilly winter that set in, this time for years.

Now, standing in the August rain, watching the trees sway fiercely in her breeze, I start to feel her less. The thawing of Springtime has begun after the deep freeze. Raindrops smooth over my cheeks, and the wind swirls around, but doesn’t quite reach me. My winter is coming to an end, the Southerly serves me no more, and I know now I won’t let her.

I’m heading north this year, and I’m leaving the Southerly behind for good.