The crunch of ice under my feet, piercing down into the snow. One foot slides out from under me, but nobody is around to see, and so I do it once more on purpose. The cold wind curls around my layers of wool and cotton. I can feel the harsh air redden my cheeks, and as I pick my way to stable ground I shove my chin into the folds of my scarf. Every winter seems new and different. You never quite remember until you are in it. Short days, slow movement, walking with your head down.
I slide a final time before I reach the sidewalk, too quickly, and I almost fall. I laugh at my eagerness and how silly I must look. The days are getting longer, they say, and I watch the sky for proof as I shuffle carefully home.