Two years ago.
It’s cold. So cold, cold enough to cause tissue necrosis on the very tip of my nose where the cold bites, and I say okay. My toes move little, my mouth less. I am slow, my tongue drawling, words dripping like molasses. I pull on my woolen socks, then a second pair. Long underwear. Snow pants. Boots. Mittens, a hat, and three scarves. Readying myself for a day which I will never be ready for.
One year ago.
It’s still cold, roads plowed and salted. I can taste the salt on my tongue, strange as it may be. Taste is foreign; I cannot remember the last time the world tickled the little bumps on my tongue. The cold still bites, and, wrinkling my nose in burgeoning annoyance, I mutter okay. Just one pair of wool socks today. I toss the other pair across the carpet. Long underwear. The snow pants dance a jig as I retire them for the first time in over ten years. Jeans today. Mittens, a scarf. Maybe no hat. I can take the bite; I can take it.
Six months ago.
The ice covering tears captured by frost has melted. They flow. An escape. I do not call the warden. Let them flow. I wipe the smudged tears from my face and notice a wetness on my body, a collection of small droplets within my creases, my underarms. Sweat. I had not noticed the change in weather. The sun’s stealth and deception amuse me. I chuckle. I pull on a light pair of khakis and a cashmere sweater, deeming myself presentable for the day.
One month ago.
The sun is shining. My lips reach out to kiss it. Chuckles raise to symphonic laughter. The sun is shining, and I cannot believe it. I pull on some shorts and a cotton shirt and skip my way down the mossy path.
One day ago.
A cloudless sky. The sun tints my nose, and I say yes. My clothes lay in a heap on the bedroom floor.