Breathe In, Breathe Out, Move On

Earpods in, two fingers of my favourite sipping whisky in a gentle burn, rocking slowly in the old wooden chair beside the soba.
Jimmy’s voice, low and steady, like a friend who already knows the whole story:

I bought a cheap watch from the crazy man
Floating down canal
It doesn’t use numbers or moving hands
It always just says now

Now you may be thinking that I was had
But this watch is never wrong
And if I have trouble the warranty said
Breathe in, breathe out, move on

And it rained, it was nothing really new
And it blew, we’ve seen all that before
And it poured, the earth began to strain
Pontchartrain leaking through the door
Tides at war

If a hurricane doesn’t leave you dead
It will make you strong
Don’t try to explain it, just nod your head
Breathe in, breathe out, move on…

The storm had come on November 17th, the kind that doesn’t bother with a name.
It tore half the shingles off the barn, flattened the lower garden, and left the chicken coop looking like kindling with opinions.

We spent the rest of November and most of December picking up pieces and pretending we weren’t tired.

Then Christmas Eve arrived gentle, almost shy.
Snow started falling in the afternoon and didn’t stop, soft, deliberate, the way forgiveness falls when you’re finally ready to receive it.

I was out at dusk with a broom and a headlamp, sweeping snow off the veranda roof so the weight wouldn’t collapse it.
The village was quiet, just chimney smoke and the low creak of cold wood.
Every roof wore a fresh white hat.
The red tiles underneath glowed like coals someone had forgotten to put out.

I hummed the chorus while I worked, the same three lines on repeat, the way you do when your hands are busy, and your heart is learning how to exhale:

Breathe in, breathe out, move on…

The chickens had already gone to bed, grumbling.
The dog lay on the doorstep watching me with the patience only dogs and mountains have.

I finished the roof, climbed down, and stood in the yard letting snow settle on my eyelashes.
The ruined coop was still there, but tomorrow was Christmas Day and the child was coming home on the morning bus.
There was nothing else to do but begin again.

So I carried fresh boards out into the moonlight, one at a time, like a man carrying prayers he doesn’t need words for.
The snow kept falling, covering every footprint almost before I made it.
By midnight, the new coop had walls.
By two, me and the quiet had done honest work.

I came back inside, poured one more finger of whisky, and set a single candle in the window for the traveller already on her way.
The soba breathed steady.
The dog sighed in his sleep.
The red roofs outside kept their ancient watch.

The hurricane had taken what it came for.
The rest it left behind was enough.

Breathe in, breathe out, move on.

Somewhere in the dark, a rooster misunderstood the hour and crowed once, like he’d just remembered tomorrow is Christmas.

I raised the glass to the snow, to ruins, to rebuilding, to the child asleep on a bus rolling closer with every mile.

Boat drinks, friends.
This one’s quiet, warm, and on the house.