This is how I remember feeling most of the time growing up; the long January stretch during the winter’s duration when activities slowed down, retreat hung heavily on the branches of the bending trees, and the sounds of a lone neighbor chopping at the ice on a sidewalk were the only street noise.
Life was an odd combination of terror and invigoration…wanting to remain forever under thick blankets while at the same time wanting to stand outside late at night, when the snow actually crackled and split with cold; on those bitter evenings when I stood in the driveway for as long as I could; watching the empty chairs seated in the warm interior of the house, steam freezing on the windows; the porch screen door blanketed in sheets of white frozen wisp and stuck against the jamb.
Watching blue snow glitter brightly under the moon…eating scalding French fries with spicy mustard out of a paper cup as I walked home over the bridge; listening for the single strand of water still surging under the frozen water.
I could not feel the tips of my fingers while my tongue burned…lonely, under a winter white orb.
690 Saint Paul 