My Tree

Damn the cold. 

The fierce wind bit my eyes with its wretched torrent of snowflakes, becoming more than I could bear.

In my youth, I remember running up countless hilltops, and sliding down the other side on my belly.  At the bottom, I'd land in a huge glorious impact, becoming more snowman than child. 

It's not the same when you're young though, especially when school's closed, and your free time expands until it's almost infinite.  Perhaps your little sister would join you, and you'd make a real snowman together.  Perhaps.

None of that was any consolation in the present.  I was slowly losing the feeling all four limbs, with only half the shoveling done, and the untouched portion of the driveway silently mocking me in the distance. 

I darted behind the elm tree in the front yard for a momentary escape from the stinging gales, and a chance adjust my clothing back into position.

My sister knitted my hat several years ago, and despite being comically oversized, it covered my head in a most comfortable way. 

The scarf was knitted last year, after she mastered the hobby, and fit snugly around my frozen neck.

My gloves had been a present from my parents, and were more expensive than I'd normally buy for myself. 

I inherited the winter coat from my dead uncle, whose wife (my aunt) decided a barely used coat was a sin to waste.

So there I stood, enreathed by the gifts of my closest kin.  I love my family, but Lord, do I hate the cold.