Stepping out, leaving my cozy climate-controlled townhouse, the air was chillily deceptive. The air surged crisply snapping against my ears. Walking down the stepped to the bus stop, Jack Frost circled my head, kissing my cheeks. Fallen snow crunched beneath my boots as I hurried, but not too fast though. The manmade (womyn constructed?) breeze of my own movement bit elite patches of bare skin: the slowly form crow’s-feet lines around my eyes, the peak of nose, apples of my cheeks, and tips of my ears.
The crisp air turned abrasive, crawling at my throat. Scarf, I have to keep my scarf over my mouth I reminded.
While I struggled to remember to keep my scarf up, my hat over my ears, and my coat buttoned all the way up, Libby followed me to the bus stop without complaint. Waiting for our ride, I asked Libby if she was okay and under the two scarves, coat, sweater, heavy shirt, shirt, undershirt, pants, pants, and pants, she nodded an affirmative.
We didn’t leave the townhouse out of necessity; rather, like moving to Calgary, going out was an excuse in will—to prove to myself that I could. To be trapped in my house because it’s too cold outside is unacceptable, especially after moving 12oo miles away from my mother and my friends, which essentially were the only social network I’ve ever known.
So Libby and I ventured out. We went to a nearby strip mall, via bus and train. Standing still with no wind, the frost-creased atmosphere seemed bearable, approachable even. However with rising wind, the frost-creased atmosphere turned hostile and we had to hide in a Starbucks to warm up.
Amazingly, the world around me appeared sharper, as if the air was thinner—even more transparent.
Even at -20f or -30c, the city kept moving.
1 comment:
Oh, hon, you've watched "A Christmas Story" one too many times, haven't you? I hope you won't have to wrap Libby up like an enchilada every day.
Ciao,
Fela
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