There are winters that feel loud, heavy, busy. Air the bites, days that rush by.
And then there are winters like this one. The kind where the light slips in, golden and warm. Through the window we press our noses too as we watch a cold and heavy world rush without us. The house feels smaller, quieter. Our soft, comforting hum of together. This was the winter we stayed close. Just small hands, and pressed cheeks warmed by late afternoon sun. Leaving no room for ordinary, though it may seem so simple looking in. Not every winter is like the last. But I do hope that years from now, when we can't quite remember every winters come, that we remember the details of that window, the warmth of the sun, and the feeling of intent.
