B77

There is more winter behind me than lies ahead.

I remember other late winter days standing outside behind the Plexiglas. Drops of melted ice fall on my hair and slide down my numb cheeks. I need to keep shifting my weight as I wait.

My bag is strapped across my chest straining the center of my back. I carry a change of clothes, running shoes, an almost dead cell phone, a cell phone charger with its power cord twisted around its neck, a bottle of painkillers, a partially charged I-pod, a digital camera, and two chocolate kisses. There are remnants of bills paid, dog-eared magazines, and mysteriously my sister’s wedding vows.

Winters bring travel to my mind. Jets delaying and crossing. Trains waiting and lulling me to sleep. Car heaters maxed out whole cold hands dangle cigarettes outside windows. California sun and air was often my reward. Or the promise of piles of snow awaiting my eager new mittens. Often it was just a journey to satisfy wanderlust. I am good at perpetual motion.

When I was 21, I was stuck at school for a spring break after I pulled out of a ski trip with friends because of an intense sorrow I was experiencing. The hill was silent except for the few others who trudged through the snow to the library. After a day or two of feeling of sorry for myself, I went downtown and rented a car and just drove. I came back every night to sleep in my dorm, but each day was journey away from my ache inside and a renewal of my spirit.

My winter trips are now to a closer place -- a place that offers me a reward unlike any other previous journey. I don’t need to take the bus ride. I could walk. It’s not far. But why not stop my forward motion for one second? Why not stop and consider my inventory?

Then there is that engine and glow around the corner. Then 15 minutes later I am home again and in her arms. And for the first time happy to be still.