They say we live in the now, that the past is always gone, and that each day is a fresh beginning, a stepping stone towards a future we fantasise about even when it’s chilly outside. That, for me, is snow, those blustery, icy days of winter. However, I’m content to simply walk through it, leaving a few tracks of my own. I watch them tumble, those feathery gems, yet some of them are on their way to land in my hand, to land on these ungloved fingers and melt in my warmth.
Look at how the snowflakes are whirling; it seems like there’s a ghost standing there. Isn’t it incredible? Sometimes I worry if you’re following me around. On occasion, I’ll walk into the kitchen and see your bowl on your side of the table. I don’t eat apples, yet when I go to the grocery store checkout, I’ll discover a bushel of them in my basket. I don’t drink tea, but every morning at eight o’clock, the time you usually made it, I’ll smell the scent of your favourite blueberry tea. These things were intimidating at first, then nasty. Was it not enough that I had already misplaced you? Is it necessary to constantly reminding me of the pain? Then it occurred to me that it couldn’t possibly be you. You were never unkind to anyone. I came to the conclusion that I was simply going nuts and haunting myself. Isn’t that the more reasonable scenario? Even yet, I couldn’t help but wonder whether I had done something wrong to deserve this.