Winter

(Warning: Lame emo short story thingy follows. Definitely among the dregs of my work, but rather than leaving you all without a contribution, I'll post this to fill space.)

Is there an unwritten mantra, that declares we must find the beauty in winter?

Winter and its crystalline landscape. Icicles hanging from delicate tree branches, reflecting the brilliant sunshine. Streets and pavements with their sharp corners all buried under smooth drifts of snow, single flakes falling in a spectacular display, small figures in mittens making snowmen and laughing.

Did someone stare out the window at the horribly bitter and vicious cold for so long that they tried to find something nice about it? Did they stay inside near the fireplace for days on end until they forgot the feeling of the wind blowing deep into their bones?

The snow is here for so long each year, but there's one thing that makes me think of you. The rain falling onto the snow and melting it, sweeping it into slush, washing it into drains and across streets, the slippery mess of water reminds me of when you left. The rain was falling on that day, as we carefully stepped across the yard to say our goodbyes beside the waiting taxi. My hair clung to my face and you couldn't see the tears for all the splashes from above. You finally let go of my embrace and stepped back. And for long minutes you stood there like a statue, alone, apart, and unwilling to take that last step away from me, to fold yourself into the seat and be ushered away to your next destination.

I stood there and wondered, what if I stopped him from leaving?

Can I really be that selfish? I know you wanted to stay.

But I'd also known how things would be worse if you didn't return. And I had to content myself with hoping to see you again. One day. "One day" became months of waiting. Our conversations always centred on that "one day". Our dreams and plans all about that one day in the future where I wouldn't have to say goodbye.

It's raining onto the snow this morning. A few children tried to make a snowman and gave up in disgust. I've watched a lady at the bus stop, whose umbrella blew inside out as the water saturated her. Cars creep by infrequently, but when they do, it's only at a snail's pace. Their tyres splash filthy mush onto everything nearby. The scene is winter, and the cold and the snow, in all its dreary lack of glory.

But tomorrow, I'll be in your arms. Somehow, winter is beautiful.