A Winter Letter

Hello again dear.

I sat down and thought about us for a moment. Just to let you know, the weather here has turned rather cold. Also, the rain has subsided (two days and nights worth), and the wind calmed. It blew all of the leaves from the trees, and now they lay on the ground, everywhere. You should see the colors. Gold and red and fading orange. If only you could see them. Perhaps I will send you a picture.

I bought a new jacket for the winter. I'm ashamed at the cost, but it's very functional and warm. A dark grey like sidewalks under street light shadow at night.

Soon there will be snow. Do you remember how you played so much in it? This time of the year always fills me with memories.

Just to let you know, it is chilly in this house during the winter. The windows leak, I believe. They are always cold to the touch and the wooden frames look old. I'm writing to you in the morning, the sun having just recently risen and I hope that it will warm this tiny house some.

I am alone here now. It is often quiet, but I am sleeping ok.

I have very few pictures of us, I realized. If you have some, I would like to frame them to put on the shelves. But maybe that should wait, as the shelves are slowly becoming bare and the moving boxes slowly stacking up.

This winter will be a cold one. But four months to go before spring begins to show, and I try my hand at something new. I'll be honest with you; between us, I am scared. I try not to think about it, but sometimes it's there, deep in the bottom of my stomach and heart. The reminder that March will bring so many changes.

But don't worry about me. I have high hopes for that time, despite the nervousness. In the end, I believe it will all be just fine.

I'm sorry that I can't keep writing (I'd wind up sending you a book!), but my head hurts some and I'd like to go sleep for a while. Stay warm and don't forget to wear your gloves outside. I would love to see you sometime soon, please let me know if you are ever in the city.

I still miss you.

With all my love and memory,

George