There
were tracks in the snow, tracks of boots and shoes and cycles and most likely a
dog. He had a bicycle, but the
snow was treacherous with narrow tires and a heavy load, so he walked. The snow still fell, finer, sharper,
but he was near shelter and he walked on.
It
was cold, and damp, and he was not dressed for such weather, but he did not
mind. He thought of the great vat
of wine waiting for him, and his mouth twitched in the bare suggestion of a
smile. Glühwein tonight, so he
walked on.
The snow
squeaked under his shoes and rattled on his cap, and he could see the bend in
the tracks that signaled he was close.
He thought of home, how it, too, might be seeing snow. But which home, the place he was born
or the place where he first lived alone, first learned friendship? Quite likely both.
He walked
on. The snow fell into the gap
between pant cuff and shoe and he felt the cold in his ankle and his fingers
and his eyes. He recalled his
friends and family from home, some more than others; and his chest tightened at
the memory of the one whom he had hoped would be more than friend. Enough, he told himself: that choice has
been made, that ship has sailed. Ah,
but if you heard it might return to port, you’d run to it. Aye, but there’s no knowing if or when
that ship will return, so dwelling on it serves no purpose.
He
walked on. He had reached the turn
in the tracks and he gripped the bicycle to mount the curb. The bushes were stark and bare under
their coat of snow and he thought them beautiful. Why it was beautiful he could not say, but it was and he
loved it and he wondered why.
He
walked on.
Cold
and tired and alone, he walked on.
