One more day

My red mittens are too big for me. I feel childlike with them hanging loose around my wrists.

Winter has come to Canada with a bang. In an instant, my skin has been sapped off all moisture. Chilled air is seeping through my single panes windows, needing me to wipe the hazy film from them to be able to see the world outside. I swim in the fog of others breaths waiting for the bus.

A transit worker in a Santa hat sees me frantically hugging myself at the train station. He laughs and tells me to try being outside for ten hours, then hands me a candy cane, ostensibly to get my blood sugar flowing. The crook of the cane fits perfectly around the edge of my tongue.

Last day, I tell myself.
One more day. One more day.

One more day of tacky soft rock seeping into my dreams and unceremoniously shaking me out of them.
One more day of coffee for breakfast.
One more day of one bus to the next.
One more day of chores and shopping squeezed into fifteen minute breaks in my schedule.
One more day of shoulders weighed down a bag filled with the day's necessary odds and ends.
One more day of a steady flow of emails.

Tomorrow I'm in a car, driving through the mountains.

The day after that, I wake up on my birthday to a home warmed by a fireplace. I will be wrapping my neck in a scarf not in preparation for the trek to work, but to walk the dog, cut down a Christmas tree, even to trod to the local bar.

And, so, here I am in my office, drinking lukewarm coffee and huddling next to my little heater, which is only allowed to be on low for fear of blowing a circuit, playing countdown.
Five hours and thirty eight minutes until work is done for the holidays.
Thirteen hours and thirty eight minutes until today is through.

One.
more.
day.