Here

It snows again, a thin layer of white spread across the ice of yesterday's melt. Treacherous, inviting, disheartening. February grinds, it's only doing its job, two years ago you fell asleep to the sound of hippos trudging around the Masai Mara but you're stuck somehow, you haven't stretched your limbs properly since. Wriggling inside the safe spaces only gets you so much further. But spring will come, spring will come, and the itch will return to you. He writes to ask if you'd come with him, write a story or two, you'll barely break even but you weren't here to make money, clearly. 

It's snowing now, but it will not always. It's winter now, but one day you'll itch for the road, and the most beautiful gift you've ever been given 

is that the road always rises up 
to meet you

if only you take the step.