I sit with my travel coffee mug in a vice hold between my legs. My hands grip it tightly on either side, not to keep it upright but rather to extract the warmth it gives off. My whole body is tense trying to soak in the heat from the mug as if its a core and is heating me from the inside out. I’m wearing about four layers and two of them are jackets.
I’m not really this cold, but I haven’t adjusted to the difference in temperature from the apartment to the cold waiting for me on the passenger seat. I close my eyes contemplating whether a nap is feasible.
I open them when I notice the light flicker into existence next to me. The light seems circular like lighting a candle in a dark room. The end of Ben’s cigarette is now embers of red.
He cracks the window and blows out the smoke. The rush of the expressway around filters in through the window with the wind.
The cold coming in makes me uncomfortable the way I am when only using a knitted afghan blanket for warmth. All my body heat escaping through the tiny holes, leaving me somewhere in between not warm enough and too cold to be comfortable.
Ben finishes his cigarette and closes the window. The heat fully envelopes me once again and my whole body instantly relaxes. I close my eyes again looking for sleep.
I’m sure someone has said it before, but there is something romantic about snow. Maybe it’s because it has a magical quality to it when it falls and it certainly helps that it sparkles.
At least it’s romantic when it’s not sending people into ditches and negative degree temperatures aren’t stealing all the moisture we possess causing our skin to crack and/or to resemble ash. Still there is something to be said about a child dancing in it while it falls. Even someone alone or maybe with a friend or a lover.
The wind is quick and menacing this morning. It isn’t just because it’s 5 a.m. and dark. The snow is pulled off the rooftops as if the wind is ripping it away with invisible claws.
The snow jumps from the roof in shreds or strings before it falls like salt. On the carports the snow moves like mist or smoke creeping off the top of them. Snow billowing off the metal roofs like steam from a boiling pot or an ominous rolling fog.
We don’t expect any different here in Michigan, however it doesn’t stop us from pointing it out. Winter is still invading spring. Pun very much intended in all the ways possible, it’s quite a cold war we’re having over here.