It’ll be cold again this evening; they say there’ll be more snow.
Odd since the sunrise this morning gave wonderful promise of a beautiful day, the sky clear, barely wisps of clouds drifting across the brightening sky.
Not that snow isn’t beautiful.
It is after all most certainly true, that there’s something about a world gone brilliantly white; trees heavy-laden, branches burdened; roads abandoned; a silence deafening – or would be deafening – except for peals of laughter from sledders surely out and about tonight.
He will stand at his window and watch them go by, couples strolling hand-in-hand as their children, perhaps grandchildren too, are pulled along.
And he will wonder.
He will wonder what she sees where she is.
He will wonder what it is like for her so far away.
Does she think about him as he does about her?
Does she remember what it was like to be in love? To be held, to laugh, to simply sit in wonder together as the snow softly falls?
Does she brush away tears, as he does, in remembering what it was like to be adored, cherished, treasured?
Does she know?
What does she do where she is?
Does she read books by the fireside like they used to do? Does it snow there? Are there mountains?
Tonight, he will stand by the window as sledders go by.
And he will wonder.
