A/N: So what do you do when current home is experiencing a stupifyingly sticky and suffocating heatwave? You write about winter in your motherland.
Wearing a Storm
You can smell snow on the air before it falls. It is a crisp jingle of ice which makes your skin tingle and nose feel it needs to sneeze.
I feel this on the air, down deep through skin layers as the facade of early morning frost melts away to reveal sunken clouds, fat on the feathers of snow. Snow which will smother the land in adown blanket. Hiding. Changing. Removing what has been known and familiar up to this point.
Will the ground below this blanket be slick with ice? Will the ground be a distant memory, reached only by a misplaced footstep which sinks, then sticks. Sending you down to your knees, up in snow.
Uncertainty is a cold mistress.
You might settle a sweater or jimmy into a jumper (however you phrase it) but then, in the middle of that day of life, a shiver shudders from shoulders to slippers. Even a drink only hides it. Warming you belly, distracting your thoughts. A grey tune underwhelming the day of a day. Just another day of breathing.
Again. And so it creeps and crawls, never really leaving. Even if you are enveloped in the lands of childhood, that period when nothing is wrong and everything is okay. Okay, because you aren’t the one to worry. Your parents have ice-buckets enough of that for you.
Until you too, reach the age of reasoning, when society has dropped layers in your mind, like fresh painted fences.
And so we arrive back at the hatch, leading to the ice box, where plums are perched. In a basket. This is where uncertainty dwells.
Now you would do well to eat the plums in that basket. They will pull your focus away. All is well. Isn’t it?
