Cold Enough

The snowy expanse stretched on for miles; the translucent surface of the frosted window pane clouding my view like a just-emptied glass of milk. The freshly cleared grey-slate streets contrast vividly with the long slopes of white powder. The wind is slow, but frigid; as if it is Winter himself personified - creeping ever so slowly until you wake up one morning to find that feathery particles of clouds have all fallen to earth overnight. I, however, can say for a fact that they are not as light as air - as most clouds are - instead weighing down a shovel as if they were fused to the earth itself. 

The temperature fluctuates quite frequently as well. Some days it’s ever so sunny, and slightly warm enough for you to shrug off your coat for a moment or two - then other days it is numb and unforgiving, as if it is trying to make up for not freezing you at an earlier time. Though I suppose that's just how Winter is sometimes. It has to be a proper contrast to the scorching heat that is expressed during the Summer, at one point or another in time. Though one always finds themselves wishing it was the other season when you're halfway through another and already tired of it - especially with Summer and Winter. As the mind is never content with what it has and must always be longing for another time. 

Time itself seems to pass much slower during the end of the snowy months before everything thaws - to say nothing of Christmas flying by. The last two months especially - January and February are always dragged out for a longer period than the others; or so it seems to me. It is inevitable, yet again, that the human mind will fall prey to these tricks and illusions - for we know scientifically that the amount of time is no longer than any other, with February, if anything, shortening it. The formerly glacial flux of water that formed a miniature river mouth at one edge of the pond is now pure ice; glittering like a thousand diamonds in the weary sunlight. The pond itself, which is often used as a waterhole for the farm animals in the Summer, is now a mirror of pure verglas. The ovate reservoir is thick enough for skating now - with the light bouncing off the smooth, icy surface of the pool ever so invitingly. 

I step outside the house, wearing only my white nightdress. The wintry bite of the air and the coolness of the stones on my bare feet momentarily takes my breath away. I soon recover, however and press on. The cold sensation of the snow on the soles of my feet is a sharp, numbing feeling. Though It is not unbearable nor is it pleasant, and I find myself wishing I had at least worn my slippers - but it was too late to go back now. I trek across the way to the large former-puddle that I saw out the window; now a flawless, reflective plane of ice. I shiver, mainly from Winter’s suffocating chilly ambiance but partially because I simply enjoyed the tingly feeling it left me with. Each step I plant in the snowy landscape leaves a clear trail of where I’ve come from. The melting snow between my toes; as I press them into the frosty powder; tells me where I’m going. 

With my white nightgown I fit in quite nicely with the white landscape, spattered occasionally with a few dull, green pines and trees; their vitality sapped, much like my own; by their arid surroundings. I can almost taste the lack of heat in the air as it dries my throat at an alarming rate - each breath I take becoming less warm as my own core slowly freezes. I know I cannot stay out here for much longer like this, lest I join mother nature’s chilled statues, a permanent residence amongst the iced trees and leaves. I know I must head back soon but I feel almost foggy as if I am in a fantasy. I scoop up a handful of the powder and am rewarded with a shudder. It certainly feels far too chilly to simply be an ideal of my own design, existing outside reality. It is cold enough. 

There is a small forest at the edge of the cul-de-sac that is a perfect example of this, most of the sparse bit of underbrush it contains has been frozen solid due to a recent storm. I know I’ve been inside the small patch of woods recently but I cannot quite recall when. Though the group of their looming forms does little to recall any happy memories. The tree’s frozen branches drip with water now as it leisurely thaws due to the slight rays of sun catching on its limbs. An immortal entity; the water sliding down it supplying it’s roots with life inside it’s transparent capsule forever. It is quite a beautiful thought, almost like poetry in a way. 

When I reach my destination I hesitate at the edge before stepping up to the muddy bank, the snow above the murky bank washing my foot clean as I pull it free from the boggy edge to press it against the ice. I don’t know why, but I feel as though I must. The crisp bolt that responds through my leg as my foot touches the frozen mirror that is the veneer of the pond, has me nearly flinching back; but no. I must press on. I put one foot out in front of the other. Slowly standing and sliding both feet out out onto the glassy floor. Feeling the surface thawing beneath my feet as the ice begins to crack beneath them. Then it shatters and I am plunged into a world of water, bubbles drifting around my form as I am consumed by the dark water. 

Then I wake up. My bed covers wet with water, the soaking form of my sheet twining around me; my bare feet numb and frigid. I glanced out the window to my left, it’s murky surface encased in frost. 

It was cold enough.