It was snow

I had written a post about snow. The snow I have to deal with while working. The snow that has all but stopped the community where I live in. See… most of Canada is pretty flat in compared to where I live. Where I live, snow is not just an annoyance to get through, but downright terrifying. Mountain passes, high cliffs, and steep hills are nothing to joke about. The snow here is deadly at 2cms.

We have had at least 20cm, if not more in parts.

And the snow has melted, making rivers, and causing small floods. Those rivers and puddles and snow lakes are freezing overnight, creating black ice. More snow on top of that and…

I nearly get t-boned driving myself and my youngest home after a shift cause the person turning left wasn’t able to stop.

I love playing in the snow, even in my car. I hate playing dodge ’em bumper cars. That terrifies me. I need to either rotate my tires, or get new ones.

I got stuck today in the snow, and a delightful young woman helped dig me out. It took an hour, but we got my car out without further incident. While we were digging, Spitfire posts her latest blog post.

And I read it.

And I started to bawl.

Screw the flowers. Her post means more to me than flowers that will die in a week or less.

When I first met her, she was skittish, tiny, and scared.

The next meeting that I remember? I was djing, and she talked about wanting to hear some filk, so I played some.

She kept on coming back to my sets, and following me when she could, probably one of my best tippers. Others had followed me from set to set, but none had followed me with the grace and humility she had. She found mum, and the changes truly started. I saw her grow in strength, and Spitfire started to truly form.

When my so-called dominant was finally called to task and more for abandoning me and messing with my mind, she was already there to help me pick up the pieces and help me put myself together. She never pushed. She was simply there for me to cry to and more.

From the moment I met her, she would slip simple little messages to me. Most of the time, I would smile, knowing she cared enough to say hi. Most of the people on my friends’ list can’t be bothered to, unless they wanted me to DJ. Only one other has been that consistent in checking in on me has been my girl Rayne, and I’m proud to call her mine.

I think it two years ago when Spitfire’s computer decided to give up the ghost and while it was being repaired, she needed something to keep her sane. I was djing far too much at that point, so I gave her my stream, and she listened to it for hours while her computer was in the shop.

She held my hand. She took over a set I did. She kept me going, even as my dominant then was playing games. She was one of several DJs I supported then, and continue to support now. She improved with my coaching, as I improved with hers.

Spitfire didn’t give me the courage to leave my dominant. Nor did my husband. That was someone else. She did give me a place I could go to be alone while I debated it. Her parcel was one, but I didn’t realize it was her place on SL the first time I was there. The other was the Galleria.

I was welcomed almost immediately by her sisters and more. Her owner, the second time I met her at the Galleria, welcomed me with open arms. It was several days before Spitfire logged in and found me at the Galleria. I think she was shocked that I was there, but accepted my presence as if I had always been there.

Within two months, I was hers. I hadn’t fallen to my knees as if it was where I belonged. It was more as if I had jumped into her arms, taking a leap of faith I should have taken two years earlier.

I have kept on making leaps of faith with her.

I stay up until I know she’s awake, just so she can send me to bed.

I wake up, and my day is filled with joy if I see a message from her on my discord.

I blush when I see her post stuff and tagging me on other bits of social media – she is bad for sending me puns.

On Sundays, she ends her week listening to my stream. On Mondays, she gets to wake up to another one of my broadcasts. She was my archivist, until she couldn’t keep up with all the music I was sending her.

She sent me a mask to keep me from inhaling smoke during forest fires. She sent me other things that I didn’t really need, but she decided I did. She was gracious in supporting me during the time immediately after my break up and continues to do so.

Spitfire’s sense of humour is wicked and witty, and she shares it with me. She shares her triumphs and her failures with me. She has let me past her mask she presents to the world, and I’ve seen the fragile heart she has as I watched her one day trying to deal with the news that her father was terminal. It broke my heart that I could not go to her and take her away from her pain for a day, or even an hour. I tried to distract her, good and bad ways, while she was waiting for him to be free. I went to far.

I listen to the recordings of several key streams of hers when I am at work, and they get me through the traffic. I listen to the trances she has given me to enable me to better be hers and help me heal. One of them reinforces my desire to be hers. The other does more than that, including reminding me of my beauty within, and it recharges me.

Spitfire has seen parts of me that no one else has gotten close to. She’s allowed me to remove plasters from old wounds that I have been too terrified to peek at. She allowed me to be “little” if I needed it, or feral, or anything else I need to be in order to help me heal.

Spitfire, my silly awien and lover…. and more… I hope to stay yours for a very long time.