The Glass Is Half Full
Californians don't know how to make windows. The outside world sucks heat out through the uninsulated frames like a mosquito sucks out blood, then exchanges it for street noise and cold sunshine.
The windows of my parents' house are sturdy, sound-sealing; they ward off the cold. You can see the frost-pinched yard and streetscape through the glass, but don't hear or feel it, except for a breath of chill that breathes out an inch or two from the pane.
After the first snow, you wake up and know it; the central heating's kicked in, and the house breathes around you, out from grey metal vents above the wood floors, limning the window's bottom edge the color of steam. You lift up the shade, you're struck with light: winter light, which has a color and character as hard to put into words as the difference between two white wines. It's brighter and bleaker than summer light, and more silent. Or, to be more accurate, it silences.
It silences the tedious thoughts, the distractions. It's easier to be empty in its presence, to stand in the middle of a street without thinking about anything but your breath, the heft of your shoes and jacket, your arms -- the sheen on them, even in freezing temperatures, under all those layers of cotton and wool.