Warmth

I reached for a hanger in my son's closet this morning and my eyes went to an as yet unworn red and gray short romper. As the wind howled outside the paned glass I stared at this summer outfit and had the ominous feeling that it would never again be warm enough to put my child in something with so little material. The sky above my house is covered in a blanket of frozen steel and hard pellets of crushed ice swirl through the air. I kissed my husband and son good-bye this morning on their way to the store. I couldn't even reach their cheeks through several layers of fabricated warmth designed to protect tiny ears and sensitive faces from the harshness of our Idaho winter. Bygone are the days of waking up and leaving the house with hair still saturated from a steamy shower. Today it would freeze in a moment outside.
Where has the sun gone? Adieu to nights in the grass drinking wine with the neighbor while our wee ones run amuck in golden sunsets. Farewell to midnight walks through sun-baked suburban streets, feeling the tangible remains of light radiate through your soles. Goodbye, my friend, my sun, my savior, my love. Sleep well. Return soon. I will miss you.