On long winter nights when the sun set at five and didn’t rise until nine we would sit in the living room and talk. Our voices blocked out the stifling silence of the darkened world outside.

The taste of hot cocoa burning our tongues as we sipped and whispered in the lamplight. We would sit in a circle, legs crossed, and say whatever came to our minds. We spoke of everything, nothing. 

The eight of us whispered softly, giving everyone a turn to talk. We were like a family, a mismatched crew, people who could depend on each other no matter what. Always speaking, always wondering.

Awake for lack of dreams.

We would put candy canes in our cocoa, let them dissolve and then drink the peppermint bliss. Sit in our pajamas with thick warm socks and heavy eyes. So awake and so tired. We swapped stories, made things up, tried to bluff each other. The whole thing like a dream now.

Hours would pass, and we would eventually become silent. Let the quiet air settle over us. Sleep tempting us. Then someone would speak, or cough, and the tranquility was broken. We would lazily sit for a moment, taking in the fact that we had to talk now. One of us mustering up the strength to mumble something, to go make coffee.

We would eat cinnamon bagels, toasted to a golden brown. Pass around the pitcher of creamer to pour into our dark mugs. Trying to stay up all night, for no reason other than that sleep didn’t seem like something we needed.

The room was dark. We liked it that way. We left the overhead lights off and turned on a few lone lamps in the corners of the room. Covered the blinking lights on the TV with a sheet. This somehow made things seem more intimate, more relaxed.

Calmer.

That’s the best way to describe those times—calm. Nothing to worry about. Nothing but the company of each other and the words spilling from our mouths. Nothing keeping us from saying what needed to be said. Nothing kept us apart those nights.

Some nights one of us would say something earth-shattering, something that totally changed the game. Something normal people would have loathed each other for. But us, we just let it sink in, then told them we would do whatever we could to make things right.

Some nights we just sat, tranquil. Not a single word spoken.
Some nights we would look outside to find that there were flakes fluttering down from the black void above. Some nights we would go out into the darkness in our pajamas and let the snow melt on our tongues. Coming back in cold and red. Some nights we gave in to the overwhelming urge to curl up and be still.

November passed, getting colder every year, and December dragged on. Christmas we would wrap little gifts in newspaper, hand them around at midnight. Thank each other for the meaningless tokens. 

On New Year’s we slept.

January was always the bitterest, the cold seeping through the cracks in the doorframes and chilling our bones. We lit the fire sometimes, let the warmth of the blaze wash over us. Talking of what we would do when spring came.

Spring. The worst time of the year. Nothing to do anymore, all the stories shared, not enough snow to play in. Not enough time to think.

February was dreaded. The shortest yet longest, the month that led to bright sunrises, moist sunsets with water dripping from the roof. No more quiet nights, the birds beginning to chirp and the house too warm to light fires. The sun staying out too long. The cocoa gone.

Our last night together we cried. Sobs. Wailing last words of affection to each other. Eyes stinging from the tears. Wondering what would become of us, what would happen when we were all gone, adults, living our own lives, nothing but cyberspace connecting us.

Somehow, though, we knew everything would be alright. We were like a family, a mismatched crew, people who could depend on each other no matter what. Always speaking, always wondering.

Awake for lack of dreams.