Winter. Shards of ice burn into my forehead like tiny pellets of buckshot. The icy winds feel like razorblades shredding their way through my skin. This time of year yields solemnness. Everyone is closed, the willows just weep that little bit more. The beauty of snow untouched, the disgust of disturbance. The snow covers everything and everyone. Nothing is the same.
Tired, I take the bus home. Getting off three stops early, I'm forced to take the long road home, trailing through the park. My feet are frozen, my fingertips frostbitten. Yet all of it fades as before me lie white fields of pure beauty. Of pure calm. Ignoring most of the scenery, i stumble and almost fall, and stop at a fence, surrounding a frozen lake. Climbing over the fence with my mind set on autopilot, I get down on a small stretch of land separating me from the lake. I tread on the ice with the utmost care, and as my feet touches the ice, the lighting post flares, my eyes closing to shut out the light.
I stumble backwards while shielding my eyes from the light that seems to have gone. I crash my feet against pebbles, making the most gruesome sound amidst the silence. As the rocks make way for my feet, they are soaked in the ice cold water of the sea. I make my way back, tripping and falling backwards with only the snow breaking my fall. The moonlight being reflected by the white snow lights up everything as if it were noon. A small house at the end of a simple man made pier lies ahead. A boat lies tethered with a short rope, looking awfully beyond repair. I make my way to the house and see no one, the door is open, I go in and heat up in front of the fireplace. I fall asleep, and sleep like a baby.
I wake up by the gleams of sun being amplified by the ceiling glass. I get up from the rug at the now cindering fireplace and walk into the next room. At the table, sits an aged man. Late fifties, already balding at the top of his head. At first I don't recognize him. But as I reach the far side of the table, and see his face, I remember him. He's my grandfather. He's the man I remember from my oldest memories. A strong, tall man, caring and sweet. He taught me how to think, to play chess, to play cards. To reason logically. Most of the memories I have of him are those of him and his wife. Life, for him, ended when she passed away from cancer. He gestures me to sit down, and as I do he picks up a plastic bag. And all of a sudden I remember, as if it has been yesterday. The bag contained copper and tin chess pieces. The ones we used to play with every Wednesday, after he had picked me up from school.
"White goes first." he says, and moves his pawn forward. I'm having the time of my life, reliving my childhood memories.
I wasn't ever able to beat him, at least not that I remember. He was always great at things like this, and taught me them as well.
"Check and mate" he says, and I lay down my king.
"Best two out of three?" I say tentatively.
"Maybe tomorrow, I'm going for a walk now, I'll be back around dinner time." He says while grabbing his coat and moves towards the door. Winter has mostly gone, give today was particularly cold.
After having played through an uncountable amount of games the next day, winning none, I decide to finally ask him.
"Why isn't she here? I'd reckon it would be possible here, even though I have no idea what this is."
-"Alas, you aren't given what you aren't entitled to."
"What do you mean?"
-"I've done some bad things as well, I guess it's a sort of karma. Having to live here without her for so long."
"I'm sorry..."
-"Don't be. She used to live here with me, but she was taken from me. She died of an infection a long time ago, I don't remember how long it has been."
-"I still talk to her every day, I buried her over the hill, close to the mountain cliff. I guess that was my repentance for my wronging."
-"This place is beautiful, more beautiful than anything you will ever experience in your life. Cherish the time you have here, it does not come cheap nor frequent. It's a last resort. A lifeline. It saved me. It gave me the strength to hang on after she had passed away when you were still young."
-"We should go to sleep, sun has already set."
Not knowing what to say, I just said I'd go for a walk and left the cabin. The sand crunched between my toes. The sea is roaring, spring is taking grasp of the trees. Flowers are sprouting from the dense forest trenches. I'm heading for infinity, sun has just set and I decided to check how long the beach actually goes on for. While the sea bashes into the beach, it carries something perfect among it. Something serene and yet powerful. Devastating and constructing. The sublime. Perfect stasis. Happiness. Perfection. The sun is still hidden when I see the cabin again in the distance. Tired I go back to bed, dreaming of what is to come.
My grandfather is already awake when I wake up. He's sitting on the front porch, reading.
Usant à l'envi leurs chaleurs dernières,
Nos deux curs seront deux vastes flambeaux,
Qui réfléchiront leurs doubles lumières
Dans nos deux esprits, ces miroirs jumeaux.
"Baudelaire," I say, "The flowers of evil." He looks up and smiles, and continues reading. I go back inside and look on the bookshelf. I chose L'étranger, by Camus, and made my way to the beach. When I go back inside to get something to drink, my grandfather is no longer there. There is a notepad with scribbling on it that I miss when going for the bottle of water on the kitchen table. As if startled by the sound of bang, or the come of Spring, Winter has finally gone.
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