I’m fidgety; fidgety and impatient, for the arrival of public transportation. My eyes focus on the slush pushed against the sidewalk, and my ears are trained on the roaring of the machines that rule the pavement.
Relentless and unforgiving, the cold always penetrates through, no matter how many layers of cloth I drape over my skin. I want the warmth of my ratty comforter that now lies limp on the cold floor of my bedroom while I am away. A piece of cloth that’s too far worn to be loved, but I treat it like shining armor on cold days.
I’ve always hated the snowfall, but especially the first snowfall. It’s known for its beauty, but all I see is something strong enough to swallow me whole. It signals the end to summer, the end of warmth, the end of familiarity.
Each snowfall brings the unknown, and each winter brings the cold. It always makes me nervous not knowing how this winter will be different, how it will change the life I’ve grown accustom to.
Will life be different by the end? Will I be different by the first days of spring? I give the browned snow a shove off to the side with my boots. Still fidgety and impatient, for the arrival of public transportation.