THE WIND PHONE
Winter, When He Died
It was cold when I lost you
It was winter when he died.
Time continued to pass despite my protests. Now, as time brings me further from both his life and death, I find that these seasonal symbols of his burial bring me as close to him as any memory in which his heart still beats.
Every year, the fierce flames of summer burn themselves to the wick. A dry, brisk wind becomes free to descend upon us, whispering the secrets of the season. Little ribbons of earthy air, lacking in moisture and mercy, as I breathe in the temperature of death.
The slow approach of the season used to tighten my chest and leave me in bed. I feared the crisp intake of winter air; spiritual paper cuts on the back of my throat.
Winter stings my nose and slides along my flesh, sucking the moisture and leaving behind red cheeks and crackling skin. He used to hold my cool, small hands. He’d declare them childlike in size and tell me, “Cold hands, warm heart,” while he blew moist air onto my tingling fingertips.
Now, he is the unforgiving chill that shrinks my hands even smaller, splitting the skin at my knuckles and loosening the simple band he gave me.
