Telling Stories

Untitled, 2019.

Untitled, 2019.

Yesterday, three of my fingers went numb. I wasn't outside in the cold for long, just a three minute walk from a building to the car. It's the January winter wind that rips the heat off skin, then down to the bones. 

Tonight, at home, I found a sparrow just outside my front door, tucked on a small perch at the top of a post where the roof line and trim block the wind. He is still there as I write this note, in the dark, sleeping.

By my kitchen window is a small cutting I took this fall from a marigold plant in the garden, hours before the first frost. Not expecting it to last beyond the week, I placed it in a vase near the sink where I could enjoy the sweet scented flowers and their vibrant colours a little bit longer than the weather was willing to permit. Two months later, the plant keeps living: buds opening, orange flowers content to take in the limited light.

It's fortunate to have a window to block out the cold but not the essential light from the other side. Here, on the inside, every few days I lift the vase, judging water levels by weight, steadying it with more water when it lifts too quickly. Even with the window temporarily shut tight, I can consider the conditions on both sides, decide what makes sense for the day, the snow floating about outside, another season's blossoms and their echo-like reflections on the ice-like glass.