Sleet floods down and in that winter flurry she doesn’t miss the sun.
The California hills held nothing for her, only make-up and the corrupt righteousness of fake faces and sick, empty smiles.
In this place with the wind beating on the roof and the lights threatening to give out, she knows she would take this over anything she knows as familiar. Snowflakes pour from the skies and with each one she hopes her sense of familiar will change.
It may not be as perfect as her crossed fingers hoped for, but feeling good isn’t a sin and the smiles are at least real.
She’ll pile on blankets and curl up real right, use the real fireplace that burns with wood, and she feel more at home here than in those California hills.