in the living room window towards the light burns. None of these work lights where you bring a thread through a narrow needle's eye to a button on the white Sunday shirt sewing or reading the newspaper. It is dim and warm. Too hot to do everyday things but cool enough to keep each other's hands.
I have no gloves on. Forgotten, despite temperatures that must be now reached minus 20 degrees. Simply forgotten. And it gets even colder. The stars are packed in the clouds. Empty snow, weary clouds. There must be a wonderful feeling to pull the white mass around, hineinzupressen the tip of the nose and breathe in the winter.
My shadow comes from one leg to the other. He can not bear to remain in one place. Perhaps because he then becomes aware of its secondary nature. Maybe it is just cold. Everything sparkles and glows
. I crush all snow Christ, under my thick leather soles. Crunches and cracks and smells of the kitchen of my grandmother. Cinnamon and hot cider. And their massive arms, which I take the air. And her laughter in my heart. It utilizes the entire free space. Flits from ventricle to ventricle. Playing hide in the capillaries. It tickles and I tremble in my thin jacket on.
My shadow is getting impatient. It moves away from me, just enough that the connection is not broken. He's right, it's time. My fingertips are numb. I have trouble making a fist. The body at my feet no longer move for minutes. A trickle of red discoloration of fresh snow.
I grab his collar and pull him to me approach. His right eye is swollen shut and their skin glows purple just below the red I to propose. The pain races through my icy rights, goes through my arm, shoulder, collarbone and takes his place. In the courtyard of my heart. The light in the window is gone, as the laughter of my grandmother.
© Simone wedge 2009
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