Cold Streets and the Kindness of Others

Montreal, Winter 2008-2009

I am standing at the window this morning, watching the icicles melt under the sting of the late February sun. Water drips from the gutter. Water. Not snow, not ice nor nor slush nor hail. Water.

Winter began almost 4 months ago. Four months of disguise as abominable citymen, big fluffy coats on legs and the fresh snow creaks under our steps. We walk on egg whites.

I do not believe in the end of winter. Of course I know spring will come since everyone talks about it, complains about the wait. I know of the spring coming but it does not exist in this world stuck in winter, frozen by the gusts of wind. Like a November newborn, I only know the cold, the wool, the rosy cheeks and the craving for hot soups.

And yet, in the gutter, not a soul, but the water flows there, free at last.

(27 Feb 2009)