Snow

The storm is coming. The tv newscasters scream themselves hoarse about it, but you don’t need a forecast; your bones smell it coming miles away. There’s a chill in your spine that this wool sweater cannot beat. Last year on this day there were stoop cocktails, the year before that magnolia blossoms and the year before you were on a tropical island laughing. The season is cruel in taunting you.

This is the test you knew would come. In the face of your fears, can you breathe in light, can you chase the monsters away? In the face of the storm, can you stand at the precipice
and hold fast?