The weather app tells you it's four degrees, but the genes at the back of your spine tell you it's sunny, tell you about layers, remind you how you were made for this, and soon you are traversing the snow crust, coffee in hand, face tilted toward the sun. Maybe there are better ways to survive a winter, but you're not convinced.
You stayed late at the writing bar, familiar faces trickling in, the bartender happy for company on such a quiet night, we joke about doing cartwheels across the floor, you feel like you've earned this living room away from home, the gift is not lost on you. Walking home, crossing the blackened park, the scent of deposited Christmas trees like a treat to your senses, you think how things can be good without being magic. It took you too many decades to learn.
(It doesn't mean you're not keeping your eyes open.
If the magic comes, you'll want to see it.)
No comments:
Post a Comment