Winter

Winter

Your hands remind me of winter.
Do you want to know how I thought of that?
‘Cause last night it was snowing and the street lights were all but burnt out,
casting a yellow glow over the fresh layers of white
         that were already nestling against my car’s windshield.
And as I drove back from the grocery store,
I plowed through that freshness and thought of the coming morning,
when all the little kids come running from their houses, hoping to be the first
         to romp through the very snow that was churning underneath my car.
I used to be disappointed, too, because I used to believe in fresh, painted coats of snow.
But as I pulled up to my house and began to unload the groceries,
a bit of snow snuck into my shoe, clung to my toes,
         and began to unload its miseries on me.
And I can’t tell you how insufferable it was to walk from the driveway into the house
         with freezing water in my shoe.
I can’t even tell you what I felt upon entering the house and taking off that shoe,
         because I didn’t feel relief.
When you found me in the kitchen massaging my toes, your smile caught me off guard.
You grasped my foot tenderly,
but I didn’t know if you could feel the chill
         since your hands were just as cold.
I looked down and saw your palms, gray and chapped, dying in their own way—
and I realized...I couldn’t feel them anymore.