When I moved here, it was the first time I had seen snow. I was twenty and I stood in the snow for several hours, numbed and soaked to the bone, fascinated.

Naturally, I got frostbite-my hands and feet were thick, green and hard like tomatoes. The doctors were incredulous: how could I not have known? My feet and hands cracked every winter for five years afterwards, the skin splintering. My feet were bloody.

So when I sit by my window filled with ice, I want to say to it: snow.

If I had only known you earlier, if I had been warned.

If I say it enough times the frost melts beneath my breath and I am left with a running pane of glass, dirty rivulets of water like my feet, oozing in the basin of cold water.

0 1 2 3 4 +