I’m sitting in the kitchen at the laptop, watching fresh snow sift through the branches of the firs like powdered sugar. At 2:04 in the afternoon, the sky is already beginning to dim and the temperature has dropped to 27F.
The snow is deceptively pretty, hiding jaws of ice and killing cold behind its lacy, fluffy mask.
I feel this chill in my bones, my hands ache and remind me of my mortality. This almost never happened when I was 20, and when it did, I ignored it, knowing it would pass. And pass it did. I know, objectively, that this will pass as well, but I measure it in weeks and months and seasons, rather than a few minutes of arthritic ache.
I wish that I could get out in this. The snow always looks so lovely on the statues at the cemetery nearby…but it’s too far to walk in this bitter cold, and the roads are treacherous. Better I stay home and watch the snow in the trees, from inside the warmth.