July

I wrote an essay in the middle of December for English. And, it was one that we had to type up and turn in in the place of an hour about a season. So, I just kinda, did.

And we got the papers back today. And, can I just tell you something?

I got an A on it. With one mark on the entire thing. So, in my head getting an A on it means it's good enough for the interwebs. So, below is the entire thing.

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Winter Essay

To taste the leaves, to smell the cold, to feel the cider, to hear the snow, and see the death of that which surrounds us at the beginning of winter is something I wait for every year, all year. Winter is my favorite time of the year. I can't wait to shovel more snow than I ever should have to. I drink enough hot chocolate to gain more weight than that of the snow I have to shovel. The feeling of know Christmas is around the corner, and shortly thereafter, knowing a new year will come about.

I yearn for the simple solitary walks, late at night or early in the morning in December. It's far too cold for anyone else to be out and about. It's the kind of cod that you feel deep in your soul, as though the sun has forgotten to find you in the never ending game of hide-and-go-seek. So, I walk in silence, enjoying the lack of noise and life around me. For, even the trees have gone to rest, to wait for the sun to shine brighter. The parents are no longer robust enough to play in the snow for hours on end, and the kids are too tired out from doing just that the entire day before. Winter is quiet.

Though, if you go near any country roads, like the one I live on, right around sunset, it's near inevitable that you'll find smoke clogging your vision, and marshmallows beckoning you forward. They whisper, "Indulgence " commanding you step forward to the bone warming fire to attempt to not drop them into the dancing flames. Some flames are blue, others green. Oranges and yellows drop in to play amongst the red that control the logs. The color of the season is red because that's what Good Saint Nick and all the leaves wear. Winter is red.

Frequently, the snow falls late at night, and the first thing you wake up to is it. Laying down and covering the world. Immediately, it feels like a Thomas Kincaid portrait. A winter wonderland, or the North Pole. Snow becomes a symbol for imagination and rest. It's a downy filled blanket that you want to throw over your bed, and never lose it, or step on it, or spill anything on it. Winter is pristine.

In winter, school children wishing for snow and wearing their pajamas inside out and backwards, while jumping around their kitchens and dropping ice cubes down the toilet in futile attempts to make it snow hard enough for school to close, dominate the scene. Their sighs or dismay, giggles of delight or snores of high school kids as they fall back into their slumber are heard like a chorus of angels singing Christmas carols. And come the day school ends for the winter break ahead, they break forth into a constant chatter. Along with the bells of shops being opened and shut, or the bell ringers trying to do a little good in the world make for a most glorious song. Winter is joyful.

And as the angels sing, mothers and fathers, siblings and uncles begin to bake. Pies, cookies, brownies and cakes are made quicker than can be consumed. From the normal fruit cake to the decadent Chocolate on Chocolate cakes. Smores' are made in excess, and hot chocolate is consumed, not by the cup, but by the gallon. Winter is creamy.

And though not every one celebrates Christmas, most people still find family to reconvene with around December time. Maybe because so many people celebrate Christmas that those that don't, just get an extra holiday. A few extra weeks to spend with those they love the most. So many people travel, back to homelands, or to dream vacations. Winter is lovely.

And for all these reasons, I love winter. I love the taste of winter, the smel, the sight and the feeling. The bone chilling cold of the wind. The soul warming laughter of friends. The finger numbing hear of a fire. And the love we reacquire.

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The end.
ARTIST: LUKE CONARD