The snow picks up, silent, you do not realize until there is a thick coating on the ground, heavy flakes racing toward their community, heavy with warming temperatures. The Victorian house on the hill still creaks with the cold. My knees creak, too, propelling my body up the rickety stairs, but I try not to think of it. We go to bed early, a penetrating peace like a heavy blanket across the floorboards, all is well.
How I itched, in the city, longed to get in the car and just get away, how all the sameness felt tiresome and useless, she said come up and I was on the highway before I had closed the door. Upstate is all timeless Sundays, is all red wine and crackling fires, I could while away a whole life here and forget to be sorry. I wear layers upon layers and still wake with ice on the inside of my window, cold the kind that gets stuck in your lungs, cold the kind that doesn't leave your bones until spring.
I could while away a whole life here
with my books and words and unending whimsy
emerge on the other side in surprise at the passing of time
but utterly,
utterly happy.
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