A winter chill

It's the kind of cold outside that seeps into your bones. It's the dreary, and gray, and head down, fast walk, pinched face kind of cold out there. It's when a warm couch and lit candle is all you can dream of. Dogs curled safely under flannel blankets, barking only at the occasional door slam.

And it's winter, cold like this, linking its steely fingers with mine that makes me think of all those lost, and sad things. Those memories we push down, far away, beneath warm sun, and sandy toes.
And in the predawn light, they climb to the surface and they linger; like wind that gets caught in that space between your coat and scarf. And the memories like to sit, statue still on my shoulder. A concrete reminder of days gone by.

And they aren't all bad. But they're there. Like trying to erase something off your computer. You have only to coax the keyboard properly, and there it is.

So when I hear a train whistle, lonely and distant I can't help but think of the Pop-Pop I lost before I ever really got the chance to make him proud. I wanted him to be my, "Look at me; watch this", Pop-Pop. I wanted him to stand at my high school graduation, stoic, but full of "that's my girl", on the inside. Would his advice have made me follow my dreams sooner? Would I have pushed harder, knowing his eyes and weather worn hands would see and hold the proof of my success? And I think of him because his presence was always so big. And I need that now, and always. That look, or nod of that head that says, "You done good kid."

And as this day brings light snow, falling in perfect, gentle circles from the sky, I hope that somewhere up there my Pop-Pop is looking down on me. I close my eyes and see him, worn slippers on his feet, crossword puzzle spread before him, lighting a cigar. And I can almost smell the twirling ribbons of smoke.