It is seven. I am sitting in my dark study. We have a two hour delay, and so, with the family sleeping in I have more time to sit quietly and now, more time to write and think. I seem out of practice.
It is not cold. It is dark. Some of the back roads are icy, hence the delay. But winter, I am sad to report, seems to have fled our valley. Last year's winter was held in a similar pattern: cold air sweeps in, producing momentary ice and snow, warm air sweeps in soon after, melting it away.
A few years ago when my boys were little boys we had the last big winter. Good packing snow and a lasting cold. We build a sizable snow fort and set a candle in it. All night it glowed warmly, in the back of our little artic back yard. I look now at the mud brown and patch white and slip into brief, indulgent mourning...I miss winter.
I also know that the world is always changing. It saddens me that January seems like late-March. But I am also fortunate enough to live in the most lovely place I've ever lived, so I have changed too, and every where and in every time there are moments I long to grasp and long to let go of. That is how we are.
A cold, black creek carving through hard, white snow. That is where winter is for me.
It is not cold. It is dark. Some of the back roads are icy, hence the delay. But winter, I am sad to report, seems to have fled our valley. Last year's winter was held in a similar pattern: cold air sweeps in, producing momentary ice and snow, warm air sweeps in soon after, melting it away.
A few years ago when my boys were little boys we had the last big winter. Good packing snow and a lasting cold. We build a sizable snow fort and set a candle in it. All night it glowed warmly, in the back of our little artic back yard. I look now at the mud brown and patch white and slip into brief, indulgent mourning...I miss winter.
I also know that the world is always changing. It saddens me that January seems like late-March. But I am also fortunate enough to live in the most lovely place I've ever lived, so I have changed too, and every where and in every time there are moments I long to grasp and long to let go of. That is how we are.
A cold, black creek carving through hard, white snow. That is where winter is for me.
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