There is an old photograph of me sitting on a snow bank, a bundled-up child of 5 or 6. My parents kept the sun at their backs when they took snaps, better for the photo. My face is scrunched up, my head a bit tilted. I can't tell if I am squinting or crying, yet, despite the answer (the thousand words lost for all time), my memory box tells me I loved winter as a boy. And I will let it.
Now, winter for me is a time to long for spring, spring a time to long for youth, a time for a different dream. There is something sticky about placing the beginning of the new year in the dead of the frozen season, something odd. Surely the time of rebirth and reawakening can't take place under the snow, trapped in the deep frost. 'Tis the sun's healing light we need.
Or a shuffle through the memory box.
As always, thanks for stopping by and take care.
(Bottom two photos courtesy of Romola Alamed)