Remembering Ice and Cold

Remembering Ice and Cold

If I look at measures, I think in winters. Not moons, suns, stars or the ticks on a ruler or those of a clock. I recollect by the numb freeze of fingers and ears. Heavy feet in boots. The rhythmic puff clouds huffed out in blue-grey morning light.

My timepiece is frostbite and crystal stars spiking in freeze-dried skies.

Don’t know why. Doesn’t really matter. I just remember cold more than heat or rain or even snow.

Today, for instance, I saw a headline asking for answers to the question if we could slow down time? I thought of accidents and how time seems to slow. I recalled kisses and those moments after making love when we wish we could stretch seconds out to eternity. Then I thought of when I was a child walking innocent streets in a distant land where Amish buggies passed.

It was cold. Freezing. I couldn’t feel my feet. My ears were pinned to my head and my lips were the blue of numb. My fingers flexed inside my mittens even though I couldn’t feel them. I remember crying and feeling hot tears on my face right before they froze.

Time didn’t slow down, it came to a goddamn halt. I was the only thing moving. Time was a solid thing like the ice on the pond across the road from my house that I couldn’t see in the dark but knew was there.

I remembered two lines to a song crossing through my brain into my breath and out into a cloud. That little bit of verse kept me going. It pushed me to the door and in. My mom was waiting with towels – warm from the dryer to wrap my hands and feet.

I sat on green shag carpet, drying my tears, breathing in  warmth as the cold wrapped dark around the house.

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