Fleeting
2001 12 27
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It's a wonderful, heady feeling, when you realise that you can still surprise yourself; when you realise it's still there inside you someplace.
The weather conspired to snow, and I am cooped up comfortably in my flat, trying the various ways I know to keep from feeling chilled straight through. Flannel jammies in blue and green plaid, a big sweater, hand-knit purple socks, and a warm cup of freshly made tea. Look, I never said I colour coordinate when I'm lounging. So there.
This would be a night of cocoa, but I haven't any; and frankly, I'm just not prepared to put on proper clothing and walk 'round to the store to buy some.
The weather conspired to snow, and it lays like infrequent lacework across the streets, and lawns, and parked cars that huddle against the curb looking for even an ounce of warmth. There they sit, their dirt covered or washed away by the whiteness; looking fresh and clean and nearly new.
I remember once coming around a corner in the dark of a winter night. The air was cold, the sky clear, and the moon fully bright and visible. There, there stood a tree covered in ice. Each branch was like crystal, sheethed in perfectly clear ice; stalactite and pristine. It glimmered. It was one of the most beautiful things I'd ever seen.
Often I wish I had a photograph of it, some kind of keepsake to remind myself of its loveliness. Some things, though, are better fleeting. They are meant not to last in any measure but our memory. They are meant to be of the moment and momentous.