In thin sheets of cold and wetness the snow came down. Individual flakes lost in the wind-woven blankets that folded earthwards.

Alone; I sat on the rumpled snow-sheets by my statue.

I did not feel the cold. I knew it was there; wrapped around my huddled form, seeping into the very pores of my being – but it is like the knowledge of blood rushing around your veins. You know it does, but you can’t feel it happening.

It had been so long since I had felt the cold. For a fleeting moment I thought I felt something akin to longing; a longing to feel the cold as I once had. But it was a foolish wish, the sort a child makes. I did not feel the cold.

Had it occurred to me, I would have been amused by my musing. Not only had I correctly- or so I believed- identified the fleeting emotion; but the irony of missing, actually longing for the cold would have no doubt amused me no end. I still had a certain… reverence for irony, if not the love and amusement I once had. Upon this realisation I felt the distant shadow of comfort settle over the space that once held my fiery heart.

The voices of the wind howled in undefined anger as they continued to weave the snow in sheets so great in number that one could not see but a few feet in front. So loud were they that one could shout at the top of their lungs and still not be heard further than you could see; but if one were to try anyway, they would carry the intruding sound away to a place of unknown origin. Unwittingly the voices of the wind painted the illusion of perfect isolation, shrinking the world down to small circle beyond which nothing could be imagined…although they had a tendency to interrupt, perhaps wisely, my more reflective thinking.

And so they continued for sometime. The icy fingers never missing a stitch although I am sure some flakes resisted, wanting to dance as they had seen those of other times do. All the while I stayed by my statue, watching with practised distance and ease while the world beyond got a coating of white sheets of various thickness and woven style. Some sheets were closely knitted, giving the impression of almost indestructibility; others so loosely woven that the slightest critical whisper of the winds would shred it; some were carefully folded earthwards, filling in every little crack and nick as the most skilled builder who takes pride in his work does; others were done hurriedly as if the winds had somewhere else to be that was of more importance. But then, as with all things, there are those that fall somewhere in the middle, identifiable in the little differences that define many things, their voice neither howl nor whisper; their speed neither gale nor breeze. These tween-winds kept beside me and my silent vigil, arguing over the best way in which to lay my hair, snatching it back and forth, playing like small children with a new toy, while I, like the tired parent smiled somewhat wanly, and proceeded to ignore them while constantly being aware of their every move for fear they may stray into dangerous territory. What this territory was … I am unsure, but a sense of…not unease, though that would be the word I would use, fell over me.

At long last they tired and deemed their work complete. The bubble grew in size but the illusion of isolation did not fade . And so I continued to sit under my statue, mimicking its motionless stance and silent disposition, marvelling at the illusion. If I were to glance upward, I new I would see the saddened face looking down upon my huddled form, tears of unrecognisable pain silently etching the face as she shielded herself with delicate and prominent wings. For this reason I did not look up; I could not bring myself to share in the pain that surrounded my statue’s form, encased by those wings of beauty’s design. Even as I thought this I felt the distant teeth of pain that had once eaten and clawed at my shattered heart. No, I did not look up. Instead I continued to watch.

I watched the sun mark its journey across the sky, proudly displaying its brilliance like clichéd cat with the canary, making full use of the snow-sheets to enhance its dazzling power. The air was still, the winds depleted by their previous night’s work. All movement seemed to take place far beyond my illusioned isolation. Before long, or so it seemed to my mind, so full of thoughts and silence in patterned bursts that time became something of unimportance, the sun began to approach its resting place.

In the distance the silhouetted town stood black against the flaming sky- a last rebellion to the growing black of night. If one were to listen carefully you could hear the stirring of creatures; creatures that shied away from the light and sought the gentle hues of blues, purples and blacks that the night brought. The air vibrated with their anticipation of the completion of the inking of sky that would allow them their turn.

As the darkness became whole the silver light of the moon sought to gentle the blackness. A wolf howled in some unknown place. Swiftly I stood and began to walk toward the town, never once glancing back at my statue. The words that I spent my musings leaning against seemed to follow me in the night air:

Here lies Josie, may she find peace in her life beyond.

Peace indeed.