defining moments.

8 02 2010

When I look back on this winter, it will be at the back of Matt’s wool-lined jacket as we trundle down the middle of the usually busy city streets in the snow. I will see this in the half-glow (not white, not yellow) of everything but the sky, uniform mellow in the early, starless dark.

What sound like discussions of the litigious implications of plowing snow that does not belong to you are really whispers that are barely whispers, floating us in the brick-funneled wind that would swallow us up, night like this.

We will tear the shells from our teeth like windows, let the white night dance crowd in, brazen as we are against the bilious blizzard, close and warm and unafraid.

If you are listening carelessly, it makes the sound of nothing at all.

The sting of laughter between my eyes makes a Deborah-shaped imprint in the snow, the laughter itself a shy last scrap of strength pushing outward on the closing fist of February. Smoke braids up wool and fleece and batteries and competition into a patchwork musculature obscuring our cheap IKEA frames.

But at my house we have always raised rebels against the cold, teaching subversion in stews. When you spot the light shaken from our windows, is it a sparkle? Or a quiver?




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