The night, now prematurely born (in a fit of time-changing, legislated scorn), struggled to breathe. Not yet weaned from the drug called ‘warmth,' and that drug called ‘day.' The drugs that simply couldn't stay.

Leaving all in a state of thinly-veiled flux.

It was, in the most painted of ways, the pupil-wide dim of five-o'clock, and, oh, evening did gust-huff. Did snort and buck. It did flare. Nipping at you numbly, giving breezy pauses. Giving you a few quiet heartbeats before it started to blow again.

Oh, this was the beginnings of something fierce.

The temperature: lows in the twenties now, around twenty-eight degrees. The breath of November's passing dawn, where everything was navy-blue, and all you wanted was a fenceless, forever of a yard, where someone would be waiting for you to get home from work. Where there would be a tangle of arms. And, oh, you hoped, fervently, for warm, pen-written letters in your mailbox. Didn't anybody send letters anymore? Didn't anybody care enough to do that?

How long before there was no such thing as mail? Why did anyone even bother checking their box?

What was the world coming to?

He remembered how, used to, he would sometimes get cards in envelopes. Blue or purple envelopes, with happy stickers. With fancy stamps. From souls (and such) he never got to see. And how he would carefully open those envelopes, so as not to rip anything that might be inside, and once opened, the words on the cards and pieces of loose-leaf notebook paper flew out at him like folded birds that, oh, had flown from far away. So far away! Making it seem like the sender of the words (those folded birds) was here, in the room, with all sorts of well-wishes.

With hugs.

That was the sort of the brightness that could save a day: getting an actual letter in the letter-box.

A sigh. A look around. Scurry this way. Hold tight to your grocery bags, Ross. Think of the shadows of the pines on summer days. Think about going in a car down gravel roads, the lightning bugs like warp stars, and you're laughing, not caring (for one glorious moment) about being understood.

Being more than just a modern cliche.

Think about your love.

Think about her.

Think about Him.

About how, in church this morning, you sang hymns. Oh, Come Thou Fount of Every Blessing. In My Heart There Rings a Melody (‘a song that Jesus gave me ... a melody of love'). And how you'd taken communion. The Body and the Blood.

How as always, you were at a humbled loss for words.

How you were the clay.

So many things to think about.

Thinking.

And, while he was thinking about all these things (oh, everything), how long before the sun got fed up? Was what he thought.

"Sun, go here. Sun, go there. Sun, we want an extra hour of you. Sun, we're having an affair with the Clock ... we're screwing with time, and you can't do anything to stop us!"

That was the kind of brashness that begged to be toppled.

Daylight Savings Time was, for Ross, in that un-special group. Along with coffee shops, wasps, mathematics, politics, and the New England Patriots. Things he couldn't stand.

Sniffing slightly, bundled in a hat and coat (and other cold-fending fabrics), Ross returned from the dollar store. The Family Dollar, on 10th Street, under the sleek monorail (which was raised, sterling white, above the decay below). The streets over here were two-way streets. And the meadow mouse crossed with timid care. Half-expecting to be run over. Accosted by some random predator.

Or shot.

An exhale. Shaking the thoughts out of his head.

There was always some kind of shooting in the city. Every few days, another news story, another murder, another ...

... exercise in negative thinking. Sometimes, he just couldn't help it. Running those scenarios through his head, and blinding himself to the positives. Just for the sake of being miserable. Self-pity was a nasty creature, wasn't it? How could any emotion cheat you so often, so well, and not get caught? For, still, you would buy into it. Would believe it. Even when you knew it was lying.

The Devil was a master manipulator. He was an excellent at selling.

Don't buy it ... don't bite it ...

Even if, sometimes, the darker thoughts took on a life of their own. And even if, whatever he did, he couldn't keep them out. It was like they checked in, tripped the wire, skipped the bill, and left. Leaving him, in turn, a wreck.

He was his own worst enemy. His biggest roadblock.

"My biggest problem is me," he would tell his wife. "I'm my biggest weakness."

She would, in her words, " ... contradict that statement."

"I don't see how it can be contradicted. Just look at me. I mean, how I am. How I act. I have a history of failure. A history of huge mistakes," he would say, his voice shaky, soft. Never passing blame. Never making excuses. It was fair to say, when younger, he'd been lured away. By endless distractions. Lonelier attractions. But, oh, he'd learned his lessons. Had grown, matured, and wasn't that what the wise ones did?

"I know. But, I tell you: your problem is not you," she reiterated, nodding. "It is your confidence. And it can be rebuilt." A pause. "I will not rest until it is."

He had flushed.

That was love. Building intangibles. Not buildings, not soaring structures. Not machines. But hearts and minds. Hope. Faith. A will to build the things that rust and rot could not destroy. But the things that, once built, would lay structures for greater life. That would broaden you.

And, oh, as for those aforementioned darker thoughts, all the baggage, all the burdens: if he went out, one day, in his winter coat, into the morning snow, and carried with him ALL those things. All those darker thoughts. All those bagged burdens. His. Aria's. All the memories of loss. Could he not just drop them there? In the snow? And never find them anymore?

Could he not be wholly new?

He felt he could. Knew, rather.

Knew, rightly, though, that it couldn't be by burial (in snow or soil). Couldn't be by forgetfulness, or by self-will.

Knew, rather, those things had to be given.

You had to let them go.

Let go.

‘Come to Me, all who labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest. Take My yoke upon you, and learn from me, for I am gentle and lowly in heart, and you will find rest for your souls. For My yoke is easy, and My burden is light."

And unburdened!

And repentance, and made clean, like the snow. Oh, happy. Oh, happy. The end.

The mouse was on a sidewalk now. And he paused. Looked both ways, and scurried across another street. Into the back-lot of one of the hospitals. He didn't know which one. There were, like, five hospitals around here. All these hospitals. And he couldn't afford to go to any of them. Didn't have health insurance, for one. But they must've always been full. There were always so many cars parked here. Even in the evening. Even at night. And the lights that remained on in the windows.

Their apartment was across from one of these hospitals.

He kept moving. Kept walking.

Thinking of peaceful things. Red hats, blue coats. Everything being still.

All the leaves had nearly fallen. Some, pumpkin-hued, still clung. But most had fallen. Crispy, crackling, they swirled on the cement and asphalt, whipped at by the wind. Dead-on-dead. So much of the city was, so often, ugly. From certain, architecturally-designed angles, there was impressive beauty. Enough to make you forget of the Parthenon. And everything of white-marbled antiquity. Everything that had lost its original paint. There was a proud, civil, industrial duty in a city.

But it wasn't enough. Wasn't enough to hide that, no, none of this was really real. That, yes, it was a kind of cage. That everyone here was a voluntary slave, dulled of senses. Drunk on specialness. Forgetting that God had made them out of dirt.

Sometimes, everyone tried so hard to make beauty, and to find miracles, that they missed the ones they already had. The beauties and miracles already made. God-given. You didn't need to take a plane to Medjugorje.

Often, things were under your nose. In front of you.

Often, all around.

But, couldn't, by that reasoning, the city be a part of that? Wasn't the city simply an amalgam of artistic expression? Built up over countless generations? Wasn't it just as much a home as any field or any forest? A multi-generational cluster of building blocks? Monuments to past and current existence?

A hub of everything.

Wasn't there a beauty in steel and asphalt? In skyscrapers that forced you to look up (like how the insides of cathedrals would do)? A beauty in no stars?

Am I being unfair ...

... hard to know. Hard to be sure.

Lord knows I love this city. I live here. I defend it. I walk its streets. I breathe its air. I know of its history, and it's place in my state. It's such a part of my home, and to be here, and to be a part of it ... I do not take for granted.

I would live in no other city. Even given the choice, I would stick by her side.

It is like a kind of love, how I take pictures of her. All her sides. In every kind of light. I stare at her for hours. I'm so in love with her ...

And yet ... and yet ...

Oh, and yet ...

... it came down to trust. He trusted the countryside. It had cradled him since birth. He trusted it wouldn't kill him. Trusted he wouldn't get lost in it. Trusted in its natural, inherent beauty. The colors, the sounds, the privacy. The space to breathe and dance. To be under endless skies. There was such a spiritual, genetic safety in that. Like living in a remnant (though a pale, fallen remant) of the Garden ...

But the city had yet to earn that trust.

Not yet.

For there was so much more to fear in a city.

And, that, ultimately, colored his views.

It was the fear.

Did that make sense?

A home was a home. Did it really matter?

Yes, he decided.

Yes, it does. And for that very reason: a home IS a home. Distinctions matter. More things were in simple black and white than most would care to admit.

But, now ...

The shadows, now, were swallowing everything.

There was no moon. Just a layer of moving clouds.

And the sidewalk bent where each parking lot ended. Like the city was down, forcibly, on its knees.

And Ross continued the mile or two walk. Back to the apartment. Back to her, his gravity and his glue. Oh, despite all the cold, and despite all the dim, it took a lot more than the sun going down to break his heart. Ultimately. And he felt a swell. Life, no, wasn't a carnival ride. Not like a radio song. Love, he'd found, was different than he'd thought.

More than the smile of hello. More than the kiss of goodbye. More than sorrow, and more than joy. Bigger and wider than any number of words. All those things on screens, all those things on pages. What things were those? Love poems? Could anything be more pretentious?

It was its own creature.

And, once knowing it, once feeling it, once in love, you would never look the same again. Never feel the same again.

A gust of colder air.

An extra sprig of scurry. Of tail-trailing, furry hurry.

And the pale, golden lights from tall, swinging lampposts.

Wondering why, as he went, he thought so much. All the time. Not, maybe, that his mind was in turmoil. But simply that it held too much. Knew too much. Felt too much. It was too much.

Wondering why he couldn't just shut it off. Shut his mind down, and get a bit of rest. A bit of unhindered sleep. A bit of mental peace. Free of self-berating and endless, wheeling speculating. Wondering why all the characteristics of his species were geared for the nonstop. Geared for struggle. Weak as he was, he was, if anything, resilient. Humility could get one far.

At twenty-two, he felt kind of old. Was he? Was he old? Or young? Sometimes, he did feel young. Sometimes, he didn't know.

Just slow down.

Slow down.

Slow.

And nearly falling down, tripping over a curb. And chittering at himself, scolding himself, and taking a huge, shaking breath, and squinting. And realizing he was almost there. Almost. Almost there.

Almost ...



" ... there," he huffed, whiskers twitching . "When I got there," he repeated, inside the door. In this, their apartment, on the fourth floor of this building on the banks of the White River. In the Downtown of Indianapolis. "I, uh, looked for the throat drops. They had menthol and cherry." A huff, catching his breath. "I didn't fancy menthol."

"Cherry will suffice," Aria said, unloading the items from the bags. Her white bobtail did a few bobs.

"It's the generic kind of throat drops, though. I don't know if, uh, that makes any difference. And they had peanut butter," he said, taking the peanut butter jar out of one of the bags, "but no celery."

"I wouldn't have expected the dollar store to have fresh produce," the snow rabbit said. And she looked to him. Registering his condition. "You are winded."

"It's a long walk." A breath. "And it's cold." A slight smile. "Not that you'd notice."

Which forced an eye-smile from her, and a slight nod. "Are you okay, though? Did you encounter any difficulties?"

A blown-out breath, and a, "No, not really." Whiskers twitching. "Why?"

"I was just concerned. I should have gone with you."

"You had to study," he said, biting his lip. His tail snaked silently. "I didn't wanna stop you. I know how you don't like to be interrupted when you're concentrating."

She took out a box of crackers. And set them on the counter, next to the sink. "Still, I do not think you should be out by yourself," she said, "after dark. Not here." Her ice-blue eyes met his blues.

A quiet nod.

"Next time, we'll go together."

"Okay ... " A bit of a breath, and a bit of a small, shy smile. "So, uh, did I get everything? I didn't take a list, but I remembered it all in my head. I'm pretty sure."

Aria surveyed the purchased items. And nodded her approval. "I believe you have everything." A pause. "I am not seeing the corn muffin mix."

"Other bag."

She looked, and nodded. Her tall, slender waggle-ears waggling. Like antennae atop her head. And his ears like round, fleshy dishes. Between the both of them, they got great reception. "How much did you spend?"

"Like, uh, twenty-two dollars." He fished in his pockets, and put the extra bills and coins on the table. "I had forty dollars with me, so ... I mean, this should last us, right, for the week?"

"It should. The only thing we're lacking is eggs. And milk. But we can get those at the gas station's convenience store ... across the bridge," she said.

Ross nodded, and began to tear off all his ‘layers' of clothing. Jacket, hat.

"Are you hot?" she asked, eying him.

"No. Not hot. I just ... feel like I'm suffocating. I can't stand being bundled up. Too restricting."

"I suppose that stems from your rural life," she said, eye-smiling a bit. "Bare foot-paws and bare-chested, lolling about."

"Well, you can do that in the country," he defended. "You can't do that here. I'm just ... used to a bit more freedom, is all. More than this place allots for," he whispered. And a sigh. And he padded into the bedroom.

She watched him go.

When he came back, he'd changed into shorts, and was wearing his button-up t-shirt (with the top few buttons undone). In bare foot-paws. And he spread his arms.

"You are dressed for warmer weather."

"It's warm in here," he said, smiling. "It's warm with you," he added, still smiling.

"Is it?"

"Mm-hmm." And he stretched. Squeaked. "Anyway, I feels more comfortable, now."

"Too comfortable to help me put the groceries away?" she teased, eye-smiling, and quietly, daintily putting things in their proper places. And though her movements were of understated grace, she was not, in any way, weak. Oh, the strength of her. Oh, the form of her. She was, Ross knew, stronger than he was. Not just mentally.

"No," Ross insisted. "I can help." And he did, helping her put the things away. Which didn't take all that long.

"You should drink," she told him, giving him a look over.

"I'm not thirsty." A blink.

"The thirst mechanism is not a sufficient indicator of dehydration. Drink," she prodded, opening the cupboard. Giving him a glass. "You walked a long distance."

"You need more water than me," he defended. "You were studying. That must use up something."

"Then I, too, will have a glass," she conceded, eye-smiling.

"Mm. Doing that eye-smile on me. I never know how to counter that."

"You may counter it with a simple smile of your own."

"Me and my smile ... mm ... "

"You have dimples," she said, "when you smile. And your whiskers twitch. I like it."

"Yeah, but ... you want ice?" he said, twitching a bit. Feeling self-conscious.

"Yes."

So, he got her a glass of ice water. And got himself a glass, as well. And they, with their water, stood, leaning against the sink. Both of them sipping.

And, whiskers twitching, nose sniffing, and tail snaking (and all those things), he sighed. And shook his head a bit. "I'm failing that poetry class."

She turned her head slightly. Raising her snow-white brow.

"We were supposed to go a poetry reading," he said, "in the area, and ... but they were all at Butler, and all at night. We don't have a car," the mouse said weakly. Whiskers twitching. "So ... I had to forfeit the assignment. The reading was yesterday. I ... I mean, I didn't know who to go with, or what to ... you know ... " He bit his lip. "I don't know. I botched it." A weak twitch.

"How much was it worth?"

"One hundred points. Out of eight hundred."

"Mm."

"I'm sorry," he whispered.

"It's okay."

"Darling, I ... I can't ... it doesn't," he said, struggling to say what he wanted to say. "It doesn't stay in my head like it does with you. I mean, I remember things. THINGS. Emotions, events. Things I'm told. I just ... but academics? They don't stick. And, sometimes, I guess I just ... shut down," he said, "if it's something I really don't like. I ... "

The snow rabbit nodded quietly. She was a straight-A student. Ross was lucky to average low B's.

"Like, I don't like that class. I droop every time I have to go. I just ... it makes no sense. Rhymes, meters. Pentameters. When I write, I WRITE. I don't think about why. I don't fit it to meet structure. I just ... do it. I do it because I can, and because," he said, trailing. Blowing out a breath. And then sipping more water. "I hate the poems. They're all about war, death, and casual sex." A pause. "One poem went on for four pages about how country music was racist." A frown. "None of the poems are about positive things. They're all so smarmy. It's so intellectual. Makes me sick. We spend the whole time dissecting each poem, what it means, what it's for ... why ... why can't anything just be intuited anymore? Why doesn't anybody have faith anymore? Why does everything have to be cut open and bled dry?" A pause. Eyes lingering, unblinking, on the floor. "I'm not so desperate for answers," he whispered, looking back up, "that I need to ... to do that. I've not the need. I can be satisfied with a little. I don't need a lot." A pause. "You know?"

"I know," she whispered back. "I often quarrel with my classmates. They are scientists. They, too, have a fondness for explaining everything away. Or trying to. You'll never get them to admit there are things beyond their explaining."

"Yeah ... " An exhale.

"The other day," she continued, her whiskers doing a singular twitch, and her body relaxed, "on parting, I said ‘God bless you.' One individual took offense to me saying that."

"Mm." A knowing sound. "There's no arguing with furs like that ... "

"I know. Which is why I said nothing but ‘God bless you' again." An eye-smile. "For he surely needed it."

A warm smile. "Mm." And he leaned against her. And he took a breath of her. "Aria ... "

"Yes?" She put her water glass down. Onto the counter.

"I don't know," he whispered, putting his own glass down. "What if I'm no good? What if I end up as nothing more than ‘overeducated and unemployed?' What if, in the end, I'm nothing more than ... than just your stupid mate? Your stupid husband? What if that's all I amount to?"

"Are you asking," she whispered, shifting her posture slightly, her paws on his arms. Fingers in his fur. "Are you asking the bounds of my love for you?"

A weak whisker-twitch. A small squeak. "No ... I just ... I try, you know. In my own way. And ... I do what I can do. It's never been good enough for anyone. I don't know what success is."

"What you do," she assured, "is good enough for me," she whispered, her nose to his. "I assure you. And as for success ... " Her nose went to his.

His eyes closed.

And she continued, at a close, warm whisper, "You have eternal life. And you have love. Perhaps, to the world, this is nothing much. Perhaps, to the wider whole, success is judged by riches and positions and pieces of paper. But you and I know differently. And you have no reason to feel ‘stupid' ... for I know that you are anything but."

Ross swallowed, eyes watering a bit, and his nose on her shoulder. And he let out a slow, slow breath. "Thanks," was his small, silent whisper. "Aria ... "

"I know," was all she said, to words she already knew. "I love you, too."

A sniffle. And a hug, and warm nose-nuzzles.

And then parting.

To have supper. To talk. To linger around the tiny kitchen table. Their words and emotions and intentions and affections filling up this little space. Little squeaks and mews, and gesturing of paws and tails. Talking of life and love face-to-face was, ultimately, Ross decided, far better than doing the same things with screens or lines. Or even folded birds.

And with the night, with its early coming, still as young as it was ...

... there was no rush.

No desperation. No fear.

Just an ease.

A love.

Trust.