The red bench stands out in the stark whiteness. The tarp above, which sits at a slight tilt from the weight of the fallen snow, protects the bench from icy remnants. The steady shiver of my hands, a few brave fingers dangling out of my parka, is perhaps a sign of the harshness of winter. If I tasted the snow now, the tip of my tongue absorbing the freezing mound, would the flavor be bitter? 

I lead myself to the bench, in hopes that sitting outside doesn't freeze my hair further. My surroundings are dry, seemingly untouched by the cold drift just inches away. Placing my bag on the ground, slipping off my red-striped mittens, a realization drifts to me, landing softly upon the edge of my ear: 

Seasons are interchangeable. 

Winter does not exist where it cannot be touched. I look directly in front of me to find that perhaps, Winter is not what I had always known it to be. 

In front of me lies a road I have driven on, walked on, laughed and danced in circles on countless times. Round and round and round I go—the dizziness tasting like a rich buttercream frosting, coating over every sense. I dance and dance in that flurry of snow, the feeling of roving eyes washing over me. If I imagine with enough fervor, it is once again bustling with students rushing to class, bundled up in throw blankets taken directly off their living room couches, hands refusing to switch to a hot drink during the transitional months. 

Imagine the drink, assembled, reassembled, disassembled at the tap of a finger, glittering cinnamon littering the floor, transitioning elegantly into wafting, peppermint foam. The seasons escape me again as my eyes return to the empty road. 

I look around for a sign that something else is alive around me. But, for as far as my eyes can stretch, my gaze rests only on lengths of pure, untainted white. They attempt to focus on it all, roaming for longer at the edges of the snow, glowing yellow from the radiant lamp lights.

No motor roars oscillate from the left. To my right, the wind tickles my dry cheek. My hair, sitting as a bundle on the top of my head, continues to drip cold water, tear after reluctant tear. But even that sensation goes unnoticed as I spot, on the road, a red car. 

A Subaru chances through the snow. It drives as if on tiptoes, any more timid and it might have slipped unnoticed by me. No indentations are left on the snow-covered road as it glides along. 

Circling my finger over and over against the ridge of the bench, I train to keep my eyes fixed on a particular location, but beyond my control, they continue to dart left to right—in search of how I have never been here before, this time in season. The shivers mimic the melting, the eager shrugs of a winter jacket off once inside a fire-lit house. 

Inside lives a happy family of four sitting around a rectangular table, sharing dishes family-style. The silence in the home pinpoints a mellowness: the sinking feeling of Chinese egg drop soup spreading over the tongue, eager eyes wandering to the ginger molasses cookies resting on the rack, the mother’s weathered hand pouring warmed milk into a glass. 

I come back to know, perhaps, after all, I have always had life like this in the winter. The simple silence, granted, allows the thoughts trembling in my head to settle, finally nodding off to a quiet, fetal, sleep. My mind is attuned to now notice the way snow falls, piece by piece, inch by inch, its care to overlap, pressing neatly against one another. Winter has put its final coat onto me, slipping off its very own to reveal the moments before. 

The snow on the road pillows up like my mother’s drifting face powder and, as I close one eye, training it on a particular patch of snow, I imagine how intact and yet moldable the snow must be—soft as a warmed, buttered croissant. I remember how no dents emerged after the red Subaru passed through, the snow seemingly touched up by an invisible watercolor brush.

The only sounds are the light echoes of the wind on my inner ear that feel like childhood whispers, rocking me to sleep, an irresistible smile coming to my lips before dozing off to the touch of my mother’s hand on my head. The slight rumble of my stomach overlays the echoes, the snow glazing away any other sounds. 

My chest, aching moments before, is now delightfully full of air, that sudden fullness I feel. For once, maybe the first time in this month of December, I feel thankful. 

I live a little life! 

The life I have filled has become a life. 

For once, gratitude is inescapable as I realize what it means to be busy, to do busywork, to work. The cold is a blessing.

It is only now that my mind rests long enough to realize that perhaps, all along, what winter has shown me paralleled whimsy, moments in my short, shortest, shortening life. 

12.03.19

I concentrate on moving my toes back and forth, which are contained within the soft, warm wraps of wool socks, layered with leg warmers. The socks, cradling my feet, swing and sway in wonderment. Goosebumps trail the line of my arms, down the sides of my legs, leading to the sensitive swelling between my thighs, arriving neatly back down at my feet.

Outside, the world is white—winter even. The shocking coldness hits me the same every day, a snowflake landing on a different part of me, inflicting wincing, unavoidable kisses. Most days I shudder frequently, walking from one street to another, kicking at the snow, resenting her for leaving unattainable aches in my body from my careless slips on graying ice. 

Why are you so stubborn? 

And yet, and yet,

 All is worth it when the sky finally dims, my ears defrosting from the outside (still pink and tender) when I realize…yes!

 It is time.

Do you understand what I mean? 

The feeling of rubbing your frail hands on the indentations of your long, thick socks, peeling them off inch by inch, slowly because they’re sticky and wet, but more so for heightened effect, the thick water clogging every other pore in the body. Moving back your ankles, rotating them clockwise and counterclockwise when finally, the warm, yet arrogant temperature hits your bare feet. 

Ahh. Ah-hah. 

Yes, this must be it. 

The stark feeling of being reborn, remade, rewoven to fit under the wrinkles of my blanket, flexing ankles up and down, through and under different layers of my baby blue bed sheets until finally, they settle nicely to the ends of my blanket, tucked neatly and tightly, a fixed replacement to the momentary care of my socks.

I close my eyes. This must be it. This must be what snow feels like if it melted like marshmallows on my tongue. 

If, 

If everything were to melt, ice melts best when you see her, standing there waiting for you, snow drifting around her

 mid-winter.