To Look Up At It All
December 7th, 2023
The cold spurs suspicion long before it's celebrated. No one can ever let go of their Autumn, the bones of their summer, so winter is greeted with a high chin. November flirts back and forth between the seasons before it settles down with the idea of winter, leaving us in a battle with layers and change. Aimless cold with no direction in the wind, just the aggressive tendency to lash at exposed skin and slam doors shut behind you. But the second it snows, the walls fall and we are reminded what it feels like to be in wonder.
Today the first snowfall of winter graced New York City. Well, more of a brief flurry, but the flakes still slowed time. People stop to look up and watch the sky fall. They stretch their palms to catch snowflakes and pause their day to witness a short lived life melt on their skin. Finally, the wind has a purpose! How snow falls is similar to the motion of life. Essentially falling to its end, but swirling in circles and never seeing the point in a simple line. Floating up up up only to plummet ten feet in a second, before freezing in our eye-line. Hanging mid-descent to look into the glow of our lives’ winter windows. Before landing on the ground to look up at it all.
When it snows, I think back to my days on Bellaire Road. I lived in an 1800s farmhouse with green shingles in a yellow door. Just my mother, our dog, and myself. It was modest with quirks and colors real estate agents loathed – it was perfect for us.
The seasons exaggerated themselves in that yard, outdoing their colors and dances from the year prior. In April the dandelions would spring from the dew-frosted grass like candy the winter-thin dear would pluck from the waking earth. In July the rain would pour down while the sun shone through the dense canopy of green leaves sprawling from the mother tree centering our acre. In October the sky was ablaze – or at least it seemed that way, for the trees ceilinged our space with hues of scarlett and burnt orange. December was special. The holiday decorations were magical, obviously, but winter laid her blanket over Bellaire with the most humbling snowfall. Silent, heavy, and serene. The tree branches weighed to the ground and it was as if the tree was hibernating herself.
Winter taught me plenty of lessons during my time in this home. The most important being:
To lay with the snow, and look up at it all.
When it snows, I think of Ruby. The paw prints she left behind on early morning walks, and how they would freeze through the new year, their indents failing to thaw until march. I think of that Northeastern salt crunch reversing out the driveway and night drives home, slow, round the snow smoked bends. I hear the itch of compacted snow against the belly of a sled on an elementary snow-day, as Lexi flew past me down her hill into the trees. I remember my brothers building igloos in our backyard, the house in Michigan where everything stayed.
It snowed in New York City today, and I thought about our future home while you slept in my bed. Our home with brussel sprouts in the kitchen, and mountains of baked goods from my busy hands. The dogs eternally at our feet, and the candles always burning. Your paintings littered on the walls, and my pens in odd places. Cider and tea for you and me. Pillows and blankets. Slow time and warmth, warmth, warmth. The only sounds between us are our daydreams and the wind singing outside, blanketing our home in snow.
