Here’s my question, Bentley: what does it mean to love only in the winter, when all is either asleep or dead, when the ground divides, the asphalt disappears in spheres, in black holes. The same as. What I can’t explain. This genderlessness of winter. The wool, the thick coats, the hats. Who doesn’t become invisible. Who isn’t suddenly approachable. A wallet left alone in the snow. A girl. A boy. One and the same. I love everyone, the rest of me so numb there’s nothing else to feel. The empty streets, the wallet that had fallen out of my pocket, waiting on my return. I love each thief, stuck inside, beside a radiator, a space heater, a cup of cocoa.I love a friend here, a friend there, trying to get out of bed in the mornings, to see as much daylight as possible, to forget about their uncertain futures. I love that I’m not the only one. And I love the digital voice I wake up to in the mornings, fall asleep to at night, love the person it belongs to. I can admit it. But it’s only possible when I can’t over think it, when there’s nothing else to think about but the layers of clothing needed, the glove covering the hand, a scarf protecting the lungs. When it snows horizontally and everything in the world disappears and equalizes and I can’t step outside for days. When the streets shimmer and windows turn to ice. When the malls and the theaters and the universities shut down and the temperatures drop below zero and everyone is like me: desensitized. This heart opens. It’s easier in the winter, Bentley.
Even right now, at this moment: the neighbor’s elderly cat screaming at the door, the distance, the dreams, the dead, even myself. Right now, it’s true. And how much easier it is, Bentley, when it’s too cold to stand below the icicles and wait for one to fall to pierce the chest.
