I circled my ice-clad arms around each other, as I stood, clinging to the coiling heat that was the product of my heart, still burning through my veins. My blood boiled, but quickly stiffened--recoiled, refusing to wander beneath the surface of my arms. It clung to my liver--like a foolish child playing war in the yard, never far from a mother’s embrace--circling my heart beneath the protection of my ribs, but cowardly avoiding the ends of body, my arms, feet.
My bloodless fingers purpled and painfully curled and my knees weighed heavily on my tired feet. I circled my body around itself, my face defiantly staring the wind away…hiding--like a foolish child…in the haven between my stomach and my arthritic knees.
My ears felt like fire, …like two windows of a family’s home, supper on the table, a father calling a foolish child from flirting with the white death in the yard. It came today, frosting the buildings, cars, …slicking the road when night fell. The morning came; cream paper fell on the steps, and the pale wind blew…granting mercy…the paper covered me until I awoke.
My heavy lids betrayed bright eyes; I had found sleep beneath a two-feet awning. An angry bark shook me, and I hid, sliding through the snow on my thigh, my nails frozen to my palms and my knees stiffened …the building had an off-centered gap in the wall, a trashcan sitting in front of it…nailed to the ground. I hid behind it. The voice passed, laughing, commenting on the weather.
My precious paper was in my mouth as I crawled, and I looked at it for news. The front-page story was about a bigwig in Hollywood, driving home from an awards show and sliding off the road. His Ferrari plowed through a snowdrift and into a pond. He was warming up at the hospital with apple cider and blankets, said the journalist. My thumb touched the word “cider” and I closed my eyes, the apple taste almost mingling with my tears, just almost. The trickle on my face grew icy and I brushed it off with my t-shirt sleeve.
My place behind the trashcan hid me from the wind; the excess of white death beside me curled in a pyre of mist on my tongue, and the comfort of noon was like none I ever remember. A student passed me, glanced at me, walked on. I saw her heart in her eyes, like the hearth of a fireplace. Maybe she was embarrassed for me…maybe she just knows…maybe she was days from this too.
That night Old Man Winter came again. We wed beneath the stars with God as our witness, as my precious cream paper lifted and flew away into the wind. The next morning, they moved my body. The next evening, the student walked by, wondering where I was. She walked past the building on my side of the trashcan, her feet grazing the place where my curled hands had darkened. She passed a man who lifted up the cream paper, read it and put it in my trashcan. A trickle on her face grew icy, and she brushed it off annoyed, a shiver coursing up her spine.
