In Winter

The first snow of this year came in early November.

My footprints were the first to make an impression,
and I admitted I had missed the snow.

The snow reminds me of my past,
and I missed the pain I used to feel in its presence.

Of dying men lying inert under a cold sun,
surrounded by a sea of melted green,
decapitated by the time and weather
and the cruelty of adolescent youth,
reminders of their futile existence
manifest only in the faded music
of those who were once children
as they sing of a past that is gone

and of a future that is not coming.

It hurts to see them sprawled there,
remnants of childhood memories
and others even more recent.

It snowed the day her life spun out of existence.

The snow reminds me of my pain,
and of what caused it.

Hot chocolate after hours of sledding,
which I never really liked except in December.
Blanketed in warmth while outside
the rest of the world is blanketed in white.
Wrapped up by the fireplace,
hearing stories I've heard my entire life.
Synchronized Christmas lights
in obscure neighborhoods to my favorite carols.

The reality of December is heartbreak,
but the fantasies it brings are the best kind
because they don't leave me heartbroken.
Even if I never end up holding hands
while I look at Christmas lights in the cold,
it doesn't seem to matter anymore.

The snow reminds me of everything I have lost,
and of everything I have yet to lose.