There is snow on the ground outside. This realization should not be as jarring as it is. It is winter, after all, the middle of January, and the snow should not come as a surprise to her. Still, it does, perhaps because of the way it creeps silently into hearts and minds, an ever present slow fall that somehow covers everything before one even realizes it has begun. It becomes apparent to her that she isn’t talking about snow anymore.
She misses him the most at times like this, grey days where coldness seeps like grief into her bones and the chill in the air makes her tired enough to think about the past. The snow buries everything, and all of a sudden the yard looks just like it did 20 years ago, and she can almost hear his voice in her ear, before she looks away and reminds herself that memories do nothing but hurt.
It is her own personal tragedy, this cold winter day. It is too loud, the silence roaring like thunder in her ears. It is too quiet. The stillness of the world outside gives the impression that time has stopped. The world has frozen, and she is trapped with the memories. But the ticking of the clock breaks the illusion, and she turns away from the memories and the regret. She makes herself a cup of tea, and outside the window the snow begins to melt.