In the evening, we play cards. For years, I had this inner narrative unspooling, about living on the edge of the wilderness, the cold a near constant companion for a good portion of the year. Now, returning from work to a chilly but not cold house, I remember keenly how that narrative began when I was a young woman, living in an uninsulated apartment, reading about polar expeditions.
The cold, indeed, makes us more alive. Too much cold, however, deadens us, too.
Our deck of cards has a few duplicates — additional sixes and eights and two Jacks of Diamonds. We have another, unpadded deck, but I have a particular fondness for this one that bends the rules and mixes our games in funny ways.
January. My inner narratives keep unwinding. Cold. Kids. Cats. Writing that nourishes my soul.
William Carlos Williams’ lines about this winter month:
Again I reply to the triple winds
running chromatic fifths of derision
outside my window:
You will not succeed.