It was a tricky thing, this question. So many different meanings. So many different interpretations. It’s weird; she had never really stopped to think about this question until it floated before her, coated in sprinkles of sugar and frosting, covering layers and layers and layers.
It was a curious thing, this question. It floated around in the snow, circling her, poking at her from all angles. She had been told that, when this eventually happened to her (every time, for she was also told that this would happen many times), it would cause internal crisis, fear—perhaps, they said, with knowing dips of their heads, she would need a quick trip to her therapist’s office. Just a quick one, where the therapist would smile and nod and tell her that yes, this was a natural part of growing up and no, it would not cause her too much trouble if she was taught to deal with it.
Such a strange thing, this question. It was still poking at her, which she had ceased to notice whilst following her trains of thought. The trains swirled around the question, dipping through its loops and curves, and it flinched a little, drawing back. But it was still curious, and she could feel the energy humming around it as it longed to approach her again.
Of all places to get accosted by this question, she thought evenly, this is not a bad one.
The question was hiding behind a tree now, its swirling layers and sugar-sprinkled colors bright against the glow of the snow and the rough, brown bark of the tree. Her thoughts were still weaving around it, keeping it at bay, and it ducked and swerved and jumped to avoid the flashes of ideas and creations.
She considered, with no particular concern, that she should probably stop fighting against the question. That was what she was doing, wasn’t it? Those were her thoughts, pelting the question in quick flashes with words and tiny balls of snow and sugar. She watched them through lashes sprinkled with cold, white flakes, feeling and not feeling the brush of the frigid wind against her bare arms, her nostrils filled with the warm smells of fire and smoke.
She knew that she could turn back. Knew that she could spin on her heel and make her way back towards the smells of food and fire. Knew that, if she did, the crunch of the snow beneath her boots would be familiar and beautiful, as would the chill of the air and the brush of her trousers against her legs. Knew that, if she did all of this, there would be people–her people–waiting with open arms to tell her, hey there. Nothing is different. Come sit with us for a while.
But as she watched the white branches, shifting and twisting, stretch over her head, she knew that this wouldn’t happen. Couldn’t happen. There is a certain line you have to cross, she knew, an inevitable dash on the track before her, another stair to climb. Some way, somehow, she knew, you need to cross the line. No avoiding it. No destroying it.
And she didn’t know how to feel about that.
But, she thought as she reached out to the question still burning before her, the thoughts that were once swirling around it parting for her reaching hand, that’s okay. Maybe it doesn’t feel like it now. But it is.
The question traveled past her hands, up her arms, and finally settled into the thrumming center of her brain.