That Winter Eve
We drove up the snowy, winding road towards the cozy A-frame cabin. The preservation of familial tradition, not mine by blood but choice. Not much choice as fateful intervention. From the moment we met, one name had stained my heart. Yours. Your hand in mine was warm to the touch, but not in manner, no, it bore the frost of obligation, of habit. You should have known; 5 years together had made me fluent in your languages. The slide of your eyes, the tense of your shoulders, the tic in your fingers or in your jaws, and even veiled attempts to hide these are a children’s book in my hands.
