Winter Is Coming

There is a chill in the air and a thick, wet mist hanging over the town. Winter is coming.

There is a frost on the ground that crunches softly, almost satisfyingly, beneath Old Sal’s faux-leather clad feet as she hobbles across the unruly, stiffly frozen front yard of her tattered, weather-worn old cottage.

Old Sal makes her way through the streets, shuffling slowly along the footpath as she does every morning. Her fingers are numb with cold in her black, woolen, fingerless gloves. Her coat is big and warm and soft, yet still, the chill sinks in. The town is quietly buzzing, alive with its early morning activities.

Mothers in fluffy slippers and soft robes stand in the doorways, kissing the husband as he leaves for work, shooing the children, bundled in layers of warmth, laughing as their breath turns to steam in the morning air, out the door to the old tin bus stops across the road. Young children, barely out of nappies are laughing gleefully, pulling the cat’s tail or running bare-bottomed through the house, without a care in the world. Babies, sleeping soundly in their little cots or crying for a warm bottle, frustrated that no-one can understand them. There are a few birds in the trees, singing their songs of morning, joined by the barking of dogs, awake and eager to be let out of their kennels.

Cups of hot drink steam in the hands of busy workers. Winter is coming.

Old Sal sniffs the air, can you smell it? The scent of rain. Old Sal looks to the sky and sees the dark clouds rolling in from the south. With them comes a howling gust of wind that is so bone-shatteringly, teeth-chatteringly cold that Old Sal bends over double and pulls her coat tighter around her. Old Sal’s toes have no feeling, despite the fluffy woolen socks and warm boots. She reaches a hand out to touch a frozen branch, and the icy coldness of the frosted plant is a shock to her rough finger tips. Yet, Old Sal presses on.

The traffic on the street is minimal. The roads are slick and slippery. Smoke billows in a rising cloud of thick grey from the chimneys of every house in town. A dog in its kennel curls tightly into itself in a feeble attempt to keep warm, Old Sal pauses a moment, sadness welling in her chest. Suddenly from the house bursts a young boy, wrapped in a thick warm blanket, to let the dog out of his kennel and invite the grateful animal inside. The sadness in her chest is replaced by something warm, something happy.

As she nears the town center, Old Sal realizes just how much she loves this town and its people. She has lived here all her life, and she feels that she has a connection, a bond, no, a belonging here. It is this thought that makes Old Sal lift her head high as she approaches the town. She loves the people, and the people love her, she is certain. Behind her, Old Sal hears the tell-tale rumbling of the local school bus. She smiles cheerfully and lifts a wooly gloved hand to wave at the children on the rickety-rackety old bus, but is greeted with taunts and insults: “Old witch!” “Stupid old hag!” Devastated, Old Sal lets her hand drop to her side. Suddenly the morning air is so much colder and she feels as though she has been frozen solid. The bubbling warmth in her bosom has been extinguished.

The birds are flying north, the animals are burrowing. Winter is coming.

As Old Sal shuffles slowly, barely moving at all, into the town center, her head droops and her shoulders feel heavy. She stops at the door of the little dress shop on the corner. Quietly, Old Sal turns the old brass key in the lock of her little dress shop. But Old Sal does not flip the sign to open today, no; Old Sal sits silently in her cold, dark little office, surrounded by old broken and beaten mannequins and half-finished items of clothing. All the colors in the shop that were once bright and beautiful are now dull and fading.  A single tear rolls down Old Sal’s cheek.

Outside feather-light snowflakes are falling. Winter is finally here.