Warmth is comforting, like the smell of brownies in the oven; warmth soothes, like aloe vera on a burn; and warmth consoles, like a gentle hand on the shoulder. Warmth is bittersweet, like spiced rum, dark chocolate and memories. It’s when I’m not cold, when everything feels alright, if only for a few moments. Warmth can be too warm, under a blanket when I’m sweating in my sleep. Then I wake up. Cold again.
Warmth is more like spring than summer. It’s wildflowers and sunshine; a balmy breeze on my skin. Warmth is childhood, daylight savings and climbing trees after dinner. It’s the smell of rain and afternoon thunderstorms; counting the colours of a rainbow and wondering where it leads. Warmth is playing soccer in the yard. It’s a bee sting, and my mum’s hand as she rubs antiseptic on my foot. It’s the first times; like playing in the ocean and scoring a goal; my father’s smile as he teaches me to ride a bike. Warmth is a cup of milo before bed. It’s a kiss on the forehead and fingers running through my hair. Warmth is Christmas, with glazed ham, crackers around the table, funny hats and dad jokes. It’s hanging stockings and decorating a tree, the smell of pine lingering long into the new year. Warmth is family nights, with board games and chocolate. It’s the sound of laughter, words of affirmation and parents who love each other, hoping that will never change. Warmth is not screaming. It’s not slammed doors, broken bowls and cupping my ears under the blanket, shaking. It’s not my parents soaking my shirt with tears as they promise it’s not my fault. Warmth is innocence. It’s knowing someone will never leave, and that I won’t be cold in the future.
Of that, I can never be sure.
Can I?
Warmth is security. It’s heat, food, and a roof over my head. It’s a savings account and knowing when my next paycheck is. Warmth is independence; making my own choices and mistakes as I learn to believe in myself. It’s a freshly ironed shirt and not being able to wipe the grin off my face when I got the job. Warmth is leisure time, taking up golf and perfecting the art of the air swing. It’s beach days, sitting on a fluffy towel, burrowing my toes in the sand, the saltwater crusting on my skin. Warmth is self-protection, like a wide-brim hat and sunblock. It’s a wall and being careful who to trust. It’s reading body language, noticing the little creases around the eyes that only appear when a smile is genuine. Warmth insulates, like thermal underwear and a sleeping bag. It’s layering up for winter with a woolly beanie, jumper, and socks; trackie-dacks and Ugg boots; and a pair of leather gloves. It’s oven mitts and Christmas cookies fresh from the oven. Warmth is nostalgia and a haunting reminder of times I wasn’t cold.
Warmth is a fire. It’s gooey marshmallows and thighs touching on a log. Warmth is a first kiss, while the sparks swim up to the stars like tadpoles. Warmth is butterflies and smiling for no reason at all. It’s Christmas markets and holding hands as the snow drifts down. Warmth is opening up and being seen for who I am. It’s not having to change who I am for the person that sees me. It’s seeing the person that sees me back. Warmth is someone I trust in the bed beside me. Warmth is knowing someone loves me. It’s knowing someone will never leave and feeling like I’ll never be cold again.
Of that, I can never be sure.
Warmth throbs, tingles, and oozes like pus from a wound. Warmth heals and protects like a band-aid. Warmth is silver linings and knowing the sun will come up tomorrow. It’s getting my eight hours, having a lie-in, and nestling under the duvets on a winter morning. Warmth is a love heart in my coffee. It’s buying myself flowers, getting a massage and dancing to my favourite song on repeat. Warmth is those creature comforts, like salt and vinegar chips and Ben and Jerry’s, pumpkin soup on the couch, and ‘Gilmore Girls’ reruns. Warmth radiates from a dozing kitten on my lap and lightens my soul with a dog’s goofy bliss as I scratch its tummy. Warmth is seeing myself, cuddling myself, self-soothing. It’s sitting on top of a tumble drier, in a big room full of tumble driers. Warmth is the changing of the seasons, the last bloom before the frost and Christmas coming again. It’s reminiscing, embracing, overindulging; it’s mulled wine, even though it makes me sick, and it's the way the ice-cream melts against my chocolate pudding.
Warmth is fleeting, and I wish it would stay with me, if only for a few moments. Warmth is the water falling on me as I sit on the floor of this shower crying, waiting for it to turn cold. Warmth is cleansing. It’s cocoa-butter shampoo and a soft sponge against my skin. It’s soap in a fleshy sore; painful, disinfecting, though never quite healing. Warmth is scar tissue. Warmth seems more and more like a nice thought than a possibility, as I hug my knees, shivering, shaking. Warmth is my tears. Warmth is the blood inside me. Warmth is.
Warmth is.
