snow

The bitter wind raps impatiently against the aged oak door, I pull my woolen blanket closer as I prepare to venture out into the cruel winter night. I am leaving the sanctuary of my warm home to check on my neighbor, the cold is unforgiving on her time ravaged bones.
As I open the door a blast of icy air hits my face, I am paralyzed for what seems like an eternity before i regain my senses and walk out into the bleak night. The moon hangs in the sky serving as a beacon of hope on this desolate country night. The blatant crackling of snow beneath my boots is all that can be heard over the howling wind.
As i trudge though the howling wind and obstinate snow, I cant help but wonder at man's dogged determination, and general success at surviving in even the most extreme environments. I moved up here to escape the grueling labors of city dwelling, and for the most part I am glad I did. But on nights like this, when my bones rattle and my blood turns to slush, I dream longingly of the hot tub at my former apartments with its pulsating jets and hot, frothy bubbles.
I see the minuscule cabin in the distance, a merry plume of smoke flowing from the chimney. It is perched upon a slight hill, lovingly guarded by trees. The windows are lit with a warm glow, welcoming you in to seek sanctuary from the wideness. A small smile plays across my face as I can't help but think this quaint scene belongs on a postcard.
My neighbor, Emma Jean, has lived here all 76 years of her hard life, she even took her first breath in that cottage, and it is where she will no doubt take her last. On nights like this I venture out here under the pretext of loneliness, and it's true, but I am not the only one who is lonely. Emma's husband died about 8 years ago, left without friends or relatives, just memories, she moves from one day to the next with no true meaning. I enjoy talking to her, she tells me stories of the land, painting luminous paintings worthy of the Louvre with words alone, and I listen, purring with glee like a contented cat. Out here there is nothing but isolation and an aching solitude, we are lucky to have another.
I don't bother knocking on the cherry red door knowing the sound will be lost in the lusty gales, but instead let myself in. The door is unlocked, for no one would journey out here to steal, the thought is madness. The aged hinges squeak wearily as they flex, I call out for Emma.
The warmth hits me and spreads over my body, a blanket for my frozen inards. Emma is sitting before the babbling fire, tenderly mending tired socks and shirts. I sit beside her, and strip myself of the cocoon I use to protect me from the cold. Once removed I hang it before the fire so it may dry, and prop my haggard feet up to let them rest.
We spend hours talking, before I fall asleep on the couch. I awake to the birds' heartining melody, wrapped in a soft quilt no doubt from Emma's childhood. I slip into my cocoon and head back to my empty haven. The morning colors bleed together as the snow glistens like firy diamonds, oh yes, it will be a glorious day.