Winter

Speaking of trains, I tell a story of Winter to my friend, of the train that stopped in the village station on an evening so cold my fellow passengers and I could see our breaths. The local pub offered refuge to all those who wanted to sit in the warmth. I wanted to feel a bit more of the cold – to see my breath; to feel all the parts of me. Anxiety warms the cold, too.Reflecting on the story of Winter, in the cold, there was nothing but warmth. My hands were likely almost immovable, frozen by the chilly air. Despite the cold, I was accompanied by the words of another friend, and the pub opened and in the darkness there was melody and community and story. We shared an experience.I think of the Winter on my walks: of the peaceful paths on cold mornings where the sun doesn’t rise until later. I think of Winter while I yearn for a cup of tea on a day too warm to drink one. I think of Winter when I least expect it.I am not much closer to the question I have sat with for months: Why does…