Photo by  Daniel Bowman

Photo by Daniel Bowman

Orange is his favorite color, five his favorite number. Winter—though he knows he will get punched for even thinking it—is his favorite season. This winter, with blizzards every Monday, has been a bit nuts even for him, but he knows this is an anomaly, that we’ll be back to snowmen and sledding soon enough.

When he looks at the doorframe to his house, splintered into a half-dozen pieces by the falling ice he has no ladder to remove, he does not despair. He knows that all frozen things must thaw. And he knows that all solid things must fall, even houses. Families.

He likes winter because it is honest, because it occupies that space between death (autumn) and life (spring), because it occupies that space without certainty, without clarity, without any promises good or bad.

He also likes winter because he can put on his orange jacket, pull the hood up over his head and tight around his face, and because he was born on a winter day, just like this one, the fifth of a month that is forever marching toward life and certainty and all that jazz, but which is still rooted in the chaos of snowflakes falling from the sky, falling to wherever chance takes them. Chance, and the wind, and so many other things.

Falling, then piling, then melting. Then falling again.

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