I was always colder in the city.
Theoretically, that center of humanity and commerce never was anywhere near as cold as the winters I remembered.
But there was some quality: of the air, of the wind, of the never-ending damp.
I was always chilled to the bone-
Shivering, even in the pale light that penetrated the clouds.
It was a strange, slow grind on my mind and body.
Sweaters and heaters didn’t help.
The cold seemed to be as much inside as outside.
When I spoke to those from further north, I always laughed as I looked out the window and told them-
Yes, crocuses in February! You couldn’t even imagine it.
It was only after I got off the phone that I would really look at the flowers.
That I would focus on the beauty as a reward-
And not a punishment.
Crocus: Abuse me not
The Darling Buds are brought to you by Victorian flower meanings, a wanton disregard for photographic technique, and the letter N for Nostalgia.
My grandfather always told me that when you realized you were on the wrong path, the best thing to do was to get off the path. Because no matter how far you traveled, you were still traveling in the wrong direction. For more writing on directions, wrong and otherwise, you can read my fantasy novel, The Guests of Honor, here. Its sequel, With Honor Intact, is also available here.