The Quiet Weeks

When the cold sets in and darkness arrives by mid-afternoon, that’s when it all surfaces. Where the year actually went. Who I’ve lost, who’s come into my life. What I missed and what I somehow grabbed anyway. Whether any of it’s made me happier. Whether I’m even asking the right question.

The snow comes quiet over the roofs and fields. It muffles everything, which should be peaceful, except the silence just amplifies what’s already loud in your head. That’s where the music comes in. Scott Matthew, William Fitzsimmons, Gregory And The Hawk—these are the voices I want walking beside me through the cold. They understand something about the slowness of winter, the way it makes you sit with yourself.

So I take a walk. Not because I think it’ll change anything, not because there’s an answer waiting at the end of the street. Just because the body needs to move when the mind gets too loud, and sometimes that’s the only remedy.