This morning I narrated our walk as if we had recently arrived on the planet Earth. I used language that was familiar to me. I obviously knew what a tree was, but nevertheless marveled at how they root in the stone and soil and cover the land. It was cold, and the cold bit at my cheeks, and frosted Hugo’s moist nose. I explained that although this part of the planet was cold, there were other, warmer parts we could go to. It was overwhelming to think this all existed on one planet. It made it easier to watch the wind blow the frozen ice pellets towards us, from the east. It made it easier to understand the darkness of the morning. It made it easier to experience the harshness of the day.
But the hours have gone by and the wind continues to blow and the cold bites at my cheeks and reminds me that I haven’t done a good enough job at covering the bottoms of my ears. The wind whistles at the door, tosses stiffly at the tops of the trees, drifts the snow over the prints––deep wells––we have left in the snow.
Though the day came, and we ate our food and had our walks, and sent our messages and letters, listened to music, cropped photographs, I am not sure where the day went. It will be covered over, our footprints not even memories, until there is a thaw, and they will steadfastly be the last mounds of snow to melt in the meadow.
Andrew Binks 