My December

What if this is my December? And, yes, even what if December is my time of year? And I can have fun, like Oskar, playing in the snow with his Papa (Låt den rätte komma in), but there's also no denying that December gets dark earlier and more often, and it can be cold, bitterly cold, and quiet, so I can feel alone, and in that aloneness, lonely.

I can make a snowball in my mittens, and walk to work in the dark, both ways, and make snow angels, and I can do all these things.

And I can look out the window at that uniformly grey sky and at that uniformly white ground. And the snow falling, as it has fallen so much this last winter is a lovely sight. But it's a quiet sight and a sad one. I wonder as I hear the feather-soft pop of each snowflake touching the ground, was that snowflake an angel? Was she sad to fall to ground? Was that her dying, like the grain of wheat must fall to the ground and die? The inevitability of it? And ... but ... was she relieved that her time had now come to an end?

And I look at the untouched snow-covered ground, and admire the purity of it, and feel regret when my feet plod through it, making tracks in that snow, marring it. I wonder if that is my life: me, plodding through it, determinedly at times, sad at others, dancing and prancing even others, but making a mark on the world, and then the snow, falling behind me, erasing my tracks from sight and from memory.

Forever.

p.s. Happy 'ffn birthday' to me: I've been (delurked) on ffn for a year now. Yay! :)