It’s snowing, today. The sunshine graced my window for twenty minutes and then disappeared. My Queen City is grey, and it will remain so until the end of March. This is not the comforting warm shade of french grey, or the charming inky more-blue-than-grey that graces my most favourite friend’s eyes. It is not even the alluring frigid grey of the New England seacoast during the non-tourist months. This is the kind of grey you first recognize as being, simply, grey. Filed away somewhere in your brain where you file away things you know are fact. It is the crayon box grey that is always the last to keep its point. Just. Ordinary.
At night, we are lucky enough to see the sky open up and count the stars. I sleep too much and shiver and pick at my cuticles until my fingers bleed. The snow falls harder. The snow itself is lovely, always, but I’m over it.