I remember waking up those frigid cold mornings. The window, which nearly kissed the side of my bed, was casted with frost around the tips of its fingers. The center however gave site to the purest blend of blue and white December had ever seen.
I had nothing to look forward to that day so I proceeded to throw on my boots and snag myself a jacket. I layered the jacket with a wool flannel and caped things off with a thick and furry stocking cap.
Their was a wonderful path on the west side of town that tip toed the ice caped river. Like young boys chasing one another through the park the path hugged every shank and dogwood the river could throw it. It really was a calm place that time of year.
I made my way down the winding trail, before I decided to soak in the scenery on a snowcapped bench. I brushed off the snow and took a load of my boots. There was a terrific overcast grey sky, one that felt cold, yet very welcoming at the exact same time. The trees completely bare, like a child fresh from the womb, reached their arms high and wide, grasping for any warmth they could. The ground was hard this time of year but the fresh snow gave decent cushion.
As I peered into the surroundings I felt a connection with the images around me. I had never felt such energy from the environment. I closed my eyes and began to imagine the face of my surroundings.
I saw a weathered man. One who had seen prosperous fields in the warm summers, as well as the cold tundra’s of winter that showed no hope of growth. Deep wrinkles in his forehead told stories of trials and tribulations. His eyebrows bushier than I would have imagined showed a film of travel in the dusty west of Texas. His eyes portrayed hurt, unexpected goodbyes, and a hope that this cant be how it all ends.
I felt in the presence of the old man. I whispered to the sky to breathe easy. To know that no matter the length of the seasons, no matter the severity of heat, or the despair of cold, we would be there for him.
Where Did the Philosophers Go 