The snow didn't come on Friday, though I had scuttled home to be in for it, to stand by my window looking out and down at it with a mug toasting my hands. And I slept late the next day as if there was snow on the ground though there wasn't.
I still don't understand that snow coma that makes sleep expand but I remember the first time I felt it, when I slept in an attic in Calgary and one morning slept inexplicably late and woke bleary to find a foot of snow had fallen. And it was then I understood that I had moved to extremities, where my body had reactions I had never experienced and I felt wolf-eyed in it, so far from and high above my salty shores.
That first real winter was delicious. Every frozen nostril hair, my breath suspended in crystals before my eyes, the shape of snowflakes visible to the naked eye. I fell in love with the mountains and we drove once up into them in the dead of winter and saw a real wolf walking on the highway. And it took many people to tell me how rare a sight that was for me to embroider it into the fabric of my Canadian winters.
But the snow didn't come on Friday. And I wrote instead. All day Saturday too. And the temperature dropped and I walked and looked skywards. But today I woke up and it had started and I felt cozy with quiet ideas. This is my tenth winter in Toronto. My tenth first Toronto snowfall. I wish I could say I remember each one, that each year was steady progress, that love was easy and met and even-keeled. But that would be a rare sight too, I suppose.
So today I'll be cozy with my quiet ideas, watching the first snow fall.
Products: Slim leg jean from Toast | Wide cut wool jumper from COS | L Frank Black Diamond Earrings from Twist | Crème Smooth Lip Colour from Laura Mercier | Corgi Fair Isle Wool-Blend Socks from Mr Porter | Black Toast Cocoa Mug from Emma Bridgewater | Doppler by Erlend Loe