wintertime

life in the cold, dark months

The fountain of youth is ice writes Rebecca Morgan Frank, the poet. Encasing its victim in stillness, a complete lack of movement. Winter is like that too. I walk up the long hill back to my apartment, chin tucked into my coat against the wind. We are all walking with our heads down. There is something about winter that freezes us deeper than just the cold. Our faces no longer stretch towards the sun, our shoulders are hunched. Winter is for hibernation. The long dark beckons from the stars and we stay huddled inside our homes to escape it. It’s also for a time for warmth. Warmth seeking and warmth making. We put fire on the hearth, set soup on the stove, clasp eachother’s ice cold hands in our own, sip hot coffee and hot tea and hot chocolate, wrap ourselves in wool. On a rare night, I’ll go dancing in wintertime. This is not the hedonistic, sweat glistening dancing of summer where the crowd writhes in life. This is a dark, sweet desperation to be near people. Coats are shed, people are stiff when they begin. Bodies that haven’t moved freely in months take a few moments to work warmth back into their bones. There is a hesitation there. Outside, the rain is unrelenting and the wind is fierce. When we leave the dark room back into the dark night, it will be a cruel sort of reminding. Reminding us that we are not out of the dark yet. Not for months. The fountain of youth is ice. What fun is that? Ice that traps, ice that creaks and groans as it moves. I don’t want to be encased in ice, I don’t want to stay still forever. I want the sun on my face and the long, infinite days of summertime. The winter solstice falls a few days before my birthday. The darkest day of the year. Some of that dark got stuck in my lips, my hair, my breath. My whole life I’ve been crawling out from underneath the soil and gasping for breath. Winter is a slow freeze that stops us in our tracks. We are frozen, alone. We can look out at each other, our eyes can search for signs of life, but our mouths no longer make noise. I try to remember that winter is also for bringing warmth back in from the cold. My father makes a fire that heats the whole house until we are all irritable and sweating. The cats are prone before the hearth, their breathing slow and steady. Drawing in the heat and keeping it there. They understand the cold and dark months far better than I. Something in their animal minds know that it is time for sleeping entangled with each other, waking up late and falling asleep early. Full bellies and a back that’s warm from the fireplace. Drawing in the heat and keeping it there. In the cold parts of the year, I am a little girl again. In summer, I am the bull headed and arrogant grown up version of myself. The in between does not exist. Walking along the city streets, the bare, grey trees glowing with twinkling lights, I am 8 or 9 years old sitting in my parents’ living room watching the snow fall for the first time on Christmas. Fat, startlingly white flakes drop onto the creek out back, becoming the rushing water upon landing. Some find perch in branches and abandoned bird nests. The world is turning quiet before my eyes. The fountain of youth is ice. After dinner, my mom shoves a bright red hat over my ears, takes me hand, and out we go into the eerie night. Eerie, but wonderful. Magical in its silence. I am young and have so much life ahead of me and yet I’m walking through the glass world. It is still as death. Snow softens the edges and rounds out the harsh wind. Blankets of powdered snow drape across cars and mailboxes. There is a sweetness there. A tucking in for the night. We yank off our mittens and hats and scarves when we get back to the house. Here. Come close, sit by the fire. Do you want tea? I’ll put extra honey in. Come. Get warm. When I am 21 I will break a heart in winter. When I am 22 I will fall in love that same month. Winter forces us in close, our hands clasped tightly while we watch the snow fall over the quiet trees. The trees are never silent except when coated in white. As a child, I would hold my palms up to their trunks and listen. I used to swear I heard them rattle and moan in the very sinew of my bones. When winter comes, they fall still. The fountain of youth is ice. Outside the world is still and frozen but we are not. We grow old and in time will fall from the world. This is the great and terrible truth. In winter, we face that truth in the black shadows that arrive before we get home from work. Everything around us will end, but the world will keep going. Take it all in. Take it all in. Take in the scarf wrapped around your neck, soup bubbling on the stovetop, rain soaking your hair, spiced eggnog, a kiss on the cheek. Boots lined up by the door, red tipped fingers from the cold, pomegranates ripped open and gutted, the burn of alcohol in your stomach, lighting a candle at 6pm, lights spiraled round a Christmas tree, cinnamon and apples, these are all things that will end. We know this to be true. In the latter half of the year, when the sun is high and warm and the wind trickles not roars, we forget. But in winter we remember.

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inspired by Nina MacLaughlin’s Winter Solstice