A few times a year I’m remind why I miss it. The dark, the wind, the chill of winter.
In the heat and the sun everything moves with such speed. Days seem to fly and the hours escape.
In the cold there’s a stillness, a quiet, a mystery. Your memories feel frozen, suspended in air. But seeming so delicate, they’re too risky to touch.
You can almost hear time passing, trying to sneak by. Slowly at first, then returns your stare. He stops and he greets you, but has only a moment to spare.
What happens in winter seems to last forever, while the things of summer burn brightly then fade.
For some, cold is shunned. A nagging chill in their bones.
For me, it’s a memory. One that leaves all too quickly.
