I walk home and it is already dark. I realize I have spent my entire adulthood in places that are slightly too warm—by contrast, my childhood, my formative years have all been lived in cold places.
In spite of this, the wind that rises to meet me as I crest the hill I walk up every evening is damp and cold and dark and blows in from the distant past, laced with memory. Someday there will be no one left around who remembers who I was then, and it is a funny feeling and an unpleasant one. I try to remember the last time I saw frost upon the ground or saw the comforting presence of hills and distant valleys from my window.
And yet, my house is warm and the tree looks bright and here are my books and things and cat who is hungry for his dinner and now, right now, is the only time worth thinking about. I try to remind myself of this but all too often I go dancing off into the past or peeping anxiously into the future through invisible fingers.