Snow

I open the front door sitting on the stoop, pulling my blanket tighter around my shoulders. Cupping my steamy mug in my hands, pondering. I can smell it in the air, the crisp, frosty humidity. It's different from the sticky wetness you feel in the summer and the dry prickling breeze of the temperate desert winters. This cold seeps into your bones, you feel the steam in your nose and the dampness in your boots.

But that smell... they share the same icy tinge that tells you it's coming. The white blanket that silences the world. Trapping the warmth that encourages the rot or by the morning, turning to slush that fills your shoes.

Some people see the comfort of family. Warm hearths and fresh baked cookies, beautifully wrapped presents and glittering tree lights reflecting back off the unsullied crystals, not yet touched by humanity. Waiting for memories to be made. Excited by the prospect of a day off school, annoyed thinking about clearing windshields to make it to work in time.

Other people see a struggle with the elements. Survival made that much harder. Staying dry, a pipe dream, warmth is sought at the local library during the day or the bottom of a bottle at night.

Unwelcome where they don't understand that a blessing to some is a curse to others. All they care about is the smell of mildew and whiskey, clothes tattered because they're the only chance to maybe keep warm. I look up, It's snowing.