Trust Issues

He arrives on my front step

with a grin and bottle of melted snow he pops like champagne

as we toast to another year around the sun

drinking until we’re delirious.

Some years he’s early, teasing me about my oversized sweater.

Other years I pace the chilled entryway tile

waiting to see if he remembers my address.

And when he’s here, I want to believe his warm breath

whispers that he’s not going anywhere —

olive eyes inviting me to expose arms, legs, midriff

leave the window open while I sleep.

I’m just not sure I’m ready

for flushed cheeks and sun-soaked kisses today

when I’ll be bitten by frost tomorrow.

Because when I say spring is my favorite season

I mean his public persona —

                not his habit of fleeing overnight, leaving me to sweep

                half-frozen tulip petals and cracked eggshells under the rug

                not his mint-chilled hisses through my open window

                that startle me awake, grasping the dark for another quilt

                not his heavy flakes beating glass and gripping green blades

                until they’re buried alive again.

But he keeps me guessing, holding out hope

that one day he’ll soften with the ice on the lake

dissolving into itself

until there’s nothing left.

Emily Heck has a BA in English Literature and Writing from the University of Northwestern — St. Paul. She works as a copywriter and lives with her husband just outside of the Twin Cities. Recently, her work has also appeared in samfiftyfour.