A moment of frozen time, preserved for two alone.
All tagged winter
A moment of frozen time, preserved for two alone.
It’s 1969, somewhere in Alaska, my first time on sentry duty for the United States Air Force; the middle of a December night, thirty degrees below zero, a guard shack in front of a nuclear weapons dump site.
My LA friends think I’m crazy. CA to NY.
A burnt orange glow reflected on our cheeks, the fire warming air more accustomed to the winter chill.
Not far from Edgcumbe Road, where pines offer their shade and scent, I meet a craggy snowbank that a homeowner failed to shovel early, when it was soft and new.
An unusually cold Australian winter morning. The light creeps just so, momentarily tricking me into thinking I’m tucked away in my London apartment, despite the distance in years since I've lived there.
My daughter’s visit softened sterile surfaces of my home with a trail of mugs, plates, and debris, comforting signs of her presence. Our sympathetic bond assuaged my longing for connection, accumulated over months of pandemic isolation.
At five to four, Husband says, “Come outside. I fixed your snowshoes. I want you to try them.” I reply, “But I can’t, you know I have this other commitment.”
The hand holding mine tugged me forward and, looking up, a spray of sympathy, she does it for sympathy, then Chanel No. 5, bright lights, and the scraping of hangers over metal rack-bones.
Skiing is inherently dangerous. Injuries happen all the time. I second-guessed this decision. What kind of mother . . .
We have been hiding from the virus for a year now, and winter has kept us holed up inside for months.
An eerie whirring rises from the lake, drawing us closer. Woolly tuques pulled low over our foreheads, my husband and I shuffle down the snow-covered path toward the shore.
Two pairs of socks. A knit cap. Fingerless gloves. I am now prepared to step into . . . my living room.