He missed the comfortable feelings he used to get when he was a kid. He could remember laying in his bed at night, with the freezing cold of winter just a window pane away, and yet it was warm and cozy, snuggled deep down into the huge safeness of the quilt his grandmother had made for him, his brother sound asleep on the other side of the room, his sisters secure in their slumber across the hall, parents laughing at the television downstairs. The wind whipped and whirled and the snow pelted off the glass of the window, seeming to want to find its way inside, to where he was. But he was safe in his little world. No harm could befall him.
That was what he had once thought. But that was then, and this was now. He had left his parents’ home many years ago, travelling out into the great, wide world. And he had found that he felt raw and exposed to the visiscitudes of life, so he spent much of his time cowering and afraid of what might happen. Because if there is one certainty in life, excepting perhaps death which is more or less certain, it is unpredictability. And that was what caused him so much grief and misery — that he had once thought that everything had its alloted place in life, including himself — but had discovered that being cast from a usual place, a secure spot, is the more commonplace.
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