Eastern Standard Time

I check the clock on my birthday my aunt does too. We hold up our phones across the room when it happens again. When the numbers match the dates I mean. We think there’s something to it but maybe it just feels nice to believe. There’s a song playing softly between us, all around us too. About how winter came and went about how the years went so fast but the days so slow. Feels like this one was written for us but maybe it just feels nice to believe? Tell me you feel the cold air seeping in, right between where the floors meet the door hinges. A sharp draft cutting through the kitchen perhaps that’s why I haven’t peeled back any of my layers. Mom suggests we catch a bit of the air ourselves, before the day is done.

So now here we are walking in circles in the bitter cold. “It will be good to get our blood moving.” She loves the smell the air makes wafting from the pine trees. She tells me once then twice until she’s sure I’ve heard her. An old habit and suddenly I’m sad, thinking of the thousands of miles that separate us. Do you think that’s why I’m hesitant to leave this plot of land we’ve memorized these last few days? I don’t trust a dark road like the one we’ve chosen at 9pm eastern standard time. Not a trace of life or light or anything familiar I feel my body building its slow panic. It’s rising to my surface I swallow deeply and clench my fists like maybe that will break the habit. But tonight she’s fearless “I feel free out here, let’s feel free okay?” and so we keep going.