It’s Fall, turning towards Spring. Winter doesn’t really happen anymore, at least not anyplace near here. It’s still cold in the mornings; frost makes thick the aging windowpanes.
Everything is still.
For hours, nothing moves. But by mid-afternoon, the sun is high in the sky.
It always smells like mud here.
Snow is something sad, like a fairy tale half-remembered. I’ve never seen it. Neither has Father. We had an aunt once who claimed she’d caught a snowflake on her tongue. But she also believed in dark conspiracies and government secrets. She believed in fairies and lies told to children to help them sleep at night.
Her thoughts always strained towards the childish. Perhaps that’s why she died, so alone, in those dark hallways of the elder home. No family, no friends. Only a faint, dim, childhood memory of snow.
credits
from Three,
released July 23, 2012
Tory Miller - piano
Tucker Cummings - text
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