For the first nineteen years of my life, my windows faced north. I made peace with this a long time ago. It made the summer, the only time of the year when the sun would shine in directly, more exciting, and that first ray of golden light a moment to savor. It would disappear again in late September, my bedroom dark once again. Through the winter, it would be blue-toned and melancholy, dependent on lamps and fairy lights to keep it from feeling like the walls were closing in. When I was able to choose my dorm room my sophomore year of college, my sole demand was that the windows faced south.
It’s November, and the light has slipped away once again, ushered out with the falling leaves and with the last hurrah of summer weather the East Coast just had. I’ve been dreading this day since Daylight Savings began, like I do every year. Everything gets a little harder when night-time seems to begin in the early evening.
But I don’t want to spend my life dreading the dark—this year, instead of seeing it as the end of light, I’m choosing to see it as the beginning of a restorative period, like it’s meant to be. I remember the quiet moments in darkness.
I remember watching snow storms out of the living room windows with my parents when I was little, watching the snowflakes dance under the warm yellow glow of the street lights. My siblings and I hoped and wished that we would hear the phone ring in the early morning, heralding a snow day, and we could spend the day sledding instead of in school.
I remember my first concert with the college choir, an ecumenical service of lessons and carols hosted in our modest gym arena. Black swaths of fabric and blue lights transformed the room into a concert hall. A hundred voices sang songs of light and hope, welcoming the winter.
I remember sitting in my sophomore-year kitchen, lit only by the dim bulb under the oven hood. Our red tea kettle was heating up over the stove; I was waiting to make tea. One of my friends brought home a panettone and we all took turns shaking the cake around in the bag of powdered sugar. The cake was sweet and fruity and comforting, split six ways among each of us.
I remember Florence, decorated with sparkling Christmas lights in the shapes of massive trees or gifts or stars, rich with the scent of roasted chestnuts and mulled wine. My roommates and I, abroad for the semester, were lucky to experience how a city we called home for a few months celebrated.
I remember luxuriating in the softness of my first cashmere sweater, thrifted for cheap from an open-air market. It made me feel like such an adult, even though I had only paid about twenty dollars for it. It was cashmere. How mature.
Now the light is gone again, and another winter is on the way. I know this, and I’m okay with it—the seasons will change again, and the light will come back, but until then, I will find my moments to savor in the dark.
Writer: Lauren Lagasse (she/her) is a student studying creative writing and fashion merchandising at Marist College in New York. She enjoys playwriting and experimental short fiction because she can't make up her mind about whether or not she enjoys writing dialogue. She previously served as Editor-in-Chief of her campus literary magazine, Marist Mosaic, and currently sings alto in her women’s a cappella group. Find her on Instagram @laurensydd.
Photo credits: Larena Nellies-Ortiz is a photographer from Oakland, California. She loves to color, texture and shadow hunt during golden hour. Her photos have been featured in The Sun Magazine, Barren Magazine, Indianapolis Review, Burningword Literary Journal, Stonecoast Review, 3Elements Review, Local Wolves Magazine, Change Seven Magazine, The Ilanot Review, Vernacular Journal, Pearl Press and The Sunlight Press. You can find her on Instagram @lalifish.
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