The Cold Report

ad0e9ed65deb11e382dc0a9ac22fc425_8 A week's worth of the very cold.

Drafty 1900s-era home made warm with firewood, extra layers, and the presence of furry, red-blooded animals.

Clear, bone-chilling nights all wild with stars.

Grey's Anatomy.

Skating indoors, sipping whiskeys on Fremont Street, crawling into bed at 10 p.m.

Bright white morning light filling the bedroom. Small fire to heat the house. Watching from the bathroom window as the dog has a moment with the new snow—snarfing into it, pouncing, peeling out with extreme joy.

Coffee at the kitchen table. Raisin toast with butter.

A long walk to work through white, blustery streets. Colored lights in everyone's windows. The fact of the year's end crackling in the air, and a recollection of something someone said recently—how you don't HAVE to take stock every year if you don't want to. A firm decision to not take stock this year.

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