Winter presses in Canada

I’m having a hard time staying away from windows these days. I wonder what this means. My fingers might sometimes be poised over the keyboard, or notebook, or even the steering wheel, but most of the activity reverberates with vision onto nothing much at all. This is fine while on the road but it’s perhaps less good when I’m at my desk closing in on a deadline.

Windows onto death, really, and by that what I mean is its autumn and the colours blast like bugles before leaves float to the ground. Before the branches slim out and present more sky–clearer paths for marauding squirrels. For Monarchs, lifting away on the whisper of a breeze. And the garden out back is nearly forgotten, rosemary sprigs snipped for roasting vegetables but otherwise the petals snap shut and compost, neglected by she who once loved shading them. It’s not right but it happens year after year and all I have left are windows.

I still pull the day towards me and let it mingle inside where my thoughts spread. There is a kind of liveliness in that, I suppose, more like renewal than evaporation. And there are always the moments when my eyes light upon those of another person passing by whatever window has contained me. Sometimes I know that other person and welcome them inside where it is warmer, where there might be a few free minutes to catch us up on each other. Friendships live on the other side of glass, sometimes.

It’s Canada and Canada falls. Maybe I’m not ready to abandon bicycle and garden and open-toed sandals and the feel of hot sand burning the soles of my feet as I run toward the water. Every goddamned year at just about this very same moment I untwist my logic with great effort and convince myself that it will be okay, really, and that I will be fine when the cruel, cruel winter blasts first wallop me. I’ll be ready, I promise myself, because there are windows and mostly I’ll be on the heated side of them.

Still, it’s curious, my fascination with windows and the apparent ease with which I surrender to the distraction they offer. Excuse me for figuring it out while writing this blog post–and while intermittently looking out at the stunning leaves–but you’re helpful to me, knowing that you’re reading my words, that you’re joining me on the journey toward answers, as winter presses its nose against the pane.


About Nor

I'm a creative non-fiction writer, with a special interest in memoirs and obituaries--life stories, local histories with flesh & blood anecdotal details. I'm also beginning to create podcasts of people's stories and expanding their audiences. I'm a diarist, an editor, and a political activist. I live in Toronto, Ontario, Canada and spend days tapping keys or staining my fingers in ink.
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One Response to Winter presses in Canada

  1. B.J. says:

    I enjoy your words, and your window view.

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