Wind Chill

I walked the usual walk home from Stanton street; I always think I'll take a cab if it feels too far, but I never do. Perhaps I never will. Tonight, the city is run through by an Arctic chill, the likes of which we have not seen this season, but which technically I know everyone in Sweden is reluctantly accustomed to by now. And Houston, this great wide wind tunnel down which all the cold anger of winter raged. I trundled on.

This week, on a dark side street in the LES, my dear friend got beaten and mugged, shock or oxycontin erasing memories but blood and bruises whispering their secrets, unforgivingly. Safety robbed from their home, I sat there tonight and felt the window leak cold drafts around my feet. I shivered.

The closer I got to the Village, the milder the chill, and the wind slowed. When I turned onto Morton, the city was quiet again, the street sleeping, and my fingers tingled as they thawed. And I saw the city, this small island in the whole of the universe, how it encapsules Life entire in its limited biotope. How on one side, the harsh winds turn lips and exposed toes blue with winter violence, while the other side lies quiet, calm, welcoming. We must not forget to fear the one; we must not forget to trust the other. They are both parts of our realities.

I slipped quietly upstairs, to my small room and its reliable radiator. My blood ran warm again. I sleep soundly, grateful.