winter
there was something in the air those winter months.
snowy, more than ever, it seemed like the town wasn't in the middle of dirty jersey, but a haunt like sleepy hollow higher up in the hudson valley. i didn't have a shearling to fit me well, though i was thankful for my sister's generous donation of an oversized winter article. as the temperature fell farther and farther, reaching toward the blue icicle on the bottom of the thermometer, i pranced through the snow piles between trapped cars, pulling up the low-hanging garment that almost touched the ground on my shorter stature in an effort to make it to my destination. i wasn't going far, to class and the cafe, and back again, and back again.
i ran through the street to the cafe and, in that time, i was warm, with only my fingers feeling the tightness and red chill of the winter frost. the cafe was cold. colder than the street, i guess. only when he came through the doors, leather-clad and hatted, his eyes searching and meeting mine, i was warm again. he was best in winter, methinks. in the backyard, holding me on his lap and necking. i don't remember freezing, but someone recalled later that homeless people died on the street that winter, casualties of the deafening silence of the cold. but we were warm and focused, sitting endlessly on the plastic chairs, gently rocking on the swing.
once, upon a stormy weekend, when five or six feet of snow fell on poor new brunswick and neighborhood boys jumped from the second floor windows into the snow mountains made by the snow trucks, we walked and walked through the cold, looking for a place to booze up. the streets were bright, like white nights of the north and reds and yellows from the evening windows seemed to warm the streets. i trailed behind, held by the hand like a child, focusing on not falling in my high heeled winter boots and picking up the continuously low-sitting shearling. even though i tried to keep my face buried in my scarf, he kept pulling me up to him and my scarf down to leave my mouth warm and wet, with my lips swiftly winded and chapped, my breath heavy and body responsive. and the air, cold and crisp invaded my lungs, each inhaling freezing the warm, pink cells, my hand to my heart as i gasped to catch my breath ... not from the cold, but from the elated feeling that this winter, with its cold, but live air, had meant.
there was something in the air those winter months. i was in love.
snowy, more than ever, it seemed like the town wasn't in the middle of dirty jersey, but a haunt like sleepy hollow higher up in the hudson valley. i didn't have a shearling to fit me well, though i was thankful for my sister's generous donation of an oversized winter article. as the temperature fell farther and farther, reaching toward the blue icicle on the bottom of the thermometer, i pranced through the snow piles between trapped cars, pulling up the low-hanging garment that almost touched the ground on my shorter stature in an effort to make it to my destination. i wasn't going far, to class and the cafe, and back again, and back again.
i ran through the street to the cafe and, in that time, i was warm, with only my fingers feeling the tightness and red chill of the winter frost. the cafe was cold. colder than the street, i guess. only when he came through the doors, leather-clad and hatted, his eyes searching and meeting mine, i was warm again. he was best in winter, methinks. in the backyard, holding me on his lap and necking. i don't remember freezing, but someone recalled later that homeless people died on the street that winter, casualties of the deafening silence of the cold. but we were warm and focused, sitting endlessly on the plastic chairs, gently rocking on the swing.
once, upon a stormy weekend, when five or six feet of snow fell on poor new brunswick and neighborhood boys jumped from the second floor windows into the snow mountains made by the snow trucks, we walked and walked through the cold, looking for a place to booze up. the streets were bright, like white nights of the north and reds and yellows from the evening windows seemed to warm the streets. i trailed behind, held by the hand like a child, focusing on not falling in my high heeled winter boots and picking up the continuously low-sitting shearling. even though i tried to keep my face buried in my scarf, he kept pulling me up to him and my scarf down to leave my mouth warm and wet, with my lips swiftly winded and chapped, my breath heavy and body responsive. and the air, cold and crisp invaded my lungs, each inhaling freezing the warm, pink cells, my hand to my heart as i gasped to catch my breath ... not from the cold, but from the elated feeling that this winter, with its cold, but live air, had meant.
there was something in the air those winter months. i was in love.