Once upon a December

It's not that I hate winter. I don't. It's beautiful. And there are all these awful holiday that you have to go to but secretly love. And I do love them. And there are so many great excuses to drink, not that anyone needs an excuse really. It's just that, during winter, all these thoughts and emotions and memories that are normally drowned out by the deafening sounds of nature seem to suddenly come to life.

Winter has a silence about it, a loneliness I've only seen in nursing homes and bus stops. There's something unsettling but perfect in the still, hollow of the night, the land spreading out like a dead thing for miles. But it's not dead. It's asleep, and we all need sleep. And the past is so present without the distraction of leaves and warmth and the breeze. Winter does not believe in breeze, only wind. Wind is where the breeze goes once the cold kills all the plants it used to play with.

And maybe the only reason you wish someone was next to you is because you're cold, and body heat's more effective and more fun than a high utility bill. Or maybe you have too much hot cocoa and peppermint schnapps to drink all by yourself. Or maybe you've always needed a partner to help with the crossword puzzle. And then there's always the silence. Winter silence is much different than summer silence. Not worse, just different. Summer silence seems to be alive, but winter silence is deafening.

And maybe it's snowing, and, well, everything is just as it's supposed to be, I guess.