This is the end of another dying year
but it doesn't feel like it out there,
with a light jacket
even when the wind whips down 75th.
I want it to get cold,
which it doesn't do anymore,
but when we were little,
it did and the snow buried the door
and we were trapped inside,
screaming with excitement,
racing up and down the halls of our little house,
until we heard a rumble at the door.
We pressed our noses to the glass,
cold and stared out into all that
frozen crystal. Our wanted prison.
An unknown planet.
A terrible forgotten place.
We would never get out.
Never, you whispered.
And then there was a scrape
and we squealed.
A snow monster, you said,
your breath steaming the glass.
And then the sharp red line
of a shovel appeared.
And the snow dropped.
And then our father's face.
Ice crystals in his beard.
Blue eyes, like yours.
Our unwanted rescuer from our wanted prision
and you said,
No fun, and stomped back into the kitchen
where our mother did the dishes.
11 hours ago