The kettle screams like two broken sheets of ice rubbing against each other in the frigid water. No amount of wool and cotton coverings can shield me from that.
Still groggy with dreams, I twist my body towards the window. The early morning is lined with frost and bright with stars and snow. The windowpane is so cold it feels like it could cut into the palm of my hand.
The thick woods nearby are blurred and dark. The lights of the distant road shine against the snow and ice. Sheathed in layers of soft flannel, I stumble to the kitchen and remove the hysterical kettle from the electric element.
It still emanates heat for a few minutes and I stand as close to it as possible, shivering. My mother, the enabler of the boiling beast, appears fresh from her morning jog across the new layer of snow. The very thought of this offends the warm Mediterranean blood that I inherited from my father. I dream of his sunny homeland as I wrap my hands around my steaming mug, which I habitually drink with too much sugar. My mother enjoys a bitter cup of plain tea as she informs me that the cross-country skis have already been waxed. It is far too early to worry about such fashionable frivolities as matching mittens, especially in this dark little corner of the world.
I find a mismatched ensemble of outerwear. By the time I step outside to strap on my skis, my fuzzy extremities are already slightly damp with sweat. The sky has taken on a streaky orange tone and the evergreen outline of the nearby pine forest have become much clearer, cutting into the auburn clouds. The steam is rising in plumes from my mouth but the goo inside my nose is stiff and not quite frozen. I twitch it, like a rabbit, testing the air. It is not too cold to snow.
I stab my poles ferociously and begin to glide forward. The way is familiar and I barely look up. Soon layers of snow and pine needles have closed in over my head. The hum of the nearby streets and power lines disappears as my feet glide down a long dark tunnel of scaly bark and frozen sap.
Every so often I catch a movement from the corner of my eye, and even though I try to tell myself that we are much too close to human habitation to encounter bears or wolves I feel my pace quicken. To emerge from the shelter of the trees is always a tense moment. I expect to feel a sudden, harsh wind to whip across the frozen river and numb my lips and eyes.
This morning the weather is merciful. There is no wind and a light snow is beginning to fall. Even with the scattered grey clouds the glittering white landscape is too much for my dilated pupils, still burning from sleep. My skis slip easily into the tracks made by those who came before me. They branch off at various points along this icy highway; residential homes, the junior high school, the outdoor hockey rink, and finally, the cemetery. I stop for a breath of air by a pile of black and grey marble lined with crusts of snow and icicles. As I peel off my toque and loosen my scarf, a chickadee sings a cheerful morning greeting and his voice echoes hauntingly at the edge of the dark wood. In passing it occurs to me that I would have to kill him and his entire family just to make a decent side dish.
The freshly fallen snow has turned the sidewalk into a mass of brown slush and the skis will move no more.
Years later I sit under the hazy heat of a bustling Asian city. The wind has grown cool as the autumn wanes into winter, and I dream of the day when the soft snow will kiss the city’s smoggy lips.
Cristina in Oaxaca 