Outside my window the sky is lavender. The snow below has picked up the echo.
My mother knew it would cloud over. She was achy. Her bones never lie. They're little pain oracles. They hurt her with the truth.
Just in the time I've written this, things have gone dark. What's left of the sky is blue-gray and fading.
The darkness of winter isn't velvety soft like the darkness of summer. The darkness of winter is sad and bleak. With luck, the places where we hide from it are comforting. I don't just mean our homes.
