songs.

Pulling Our Weight

We hurried along the streetlights, running from post to post, afraid of the darkness. We would find quiet places to huddle, as violent rain fell from an open sky, the warmth of the barrel fire keeping us warm; keeping us alive. At minus 10, the city would show its fangs, and we would all become victims of Jack Frost. His cold touch would create skating rinks out of roads, and turn us from t-shirts and shorts, into scarves and long underwear.

Sister Winter

A tired letter was composed with tired hands, tired eyes and tired sighs on that cold December evening. A full orchestra scored my scribbles, as my thoughts became ink dried onto paper. This tired letter wept my tears, and it felt the pain that I felt; it was in itself a feeling being, crying for forgiveness, apologizing and giving well wishes. I had never felt closer to anything or anyone, in my entire life. These created materials became more than just pen and paper. It became you and I; it became my struggles, my hopes and my fears. This pathetic letter, written on old paper, torn and frayed, became the last thing I could call me own.

Knitting Something Nice For You

The view from this third floor apartment stayed the same for at least half the year. The one day of the year that I distinguish as being completely unique from every other is the first snow fall: the one day when things go from ordinary, flat, plain prairie, to something magical. I quietly rocked back and forth, needles in my hands, subconsciously knitting some blanket, or something, when I first saw it. The first snowflake slowly fell to the ground, in the most peaceful, elegant manner. You wouldn't think it, but even at 85, a person can still get quite existential over things like this: I looked back on how many snowfalls I had witnessed, and how much I had changed from one to the next. I thought about my worth, the influence I had had on the people I had met. I looked down at my blanket-in-progress, smiled, and continued to knit.