13 February 2015

Then it snows

January 2015

Like I said, it got cold again. Not snowy — snow is in the air sometimes, but it doesn't stick. Instead, it's dry and cold, where you see your breath and the girls' tiny hands get wrapped up in my grey gloves as we make our way up Tennal Road to their school in the morning. The sky is electric blue or grey too. I kiss and hug the kids goodbye and feel like I don't appreciate it enough.

The winter is slipping away like that. Today, I walked home from the City Centre, after giving blood. It was raining, but not raining, the way it does in Birmingham, in the whole of this country. You don't realise you're wet until you're very wet. I bought roses for Yoko and the girls for Valentine's and thought about the last time I had bought roses for Yoko, if I ever had. They sell 18 of them at Morrison's, a number that struck me as odd as I walked them home, past the Botanical Gardens and then into Harborne. When I stood in the entryway with them, Yoko came to greet me and took the wet bag from me. I have never given you roses: in what other ways have I failed.

The days have been passing without much to say. Every day feels like a small pebble I run to the top of the hill. None of the pebbles are beautiful or unique, but the mountain is growing, bit by bit. It's a metaphor. I get up and take the kids to school. I run and work out and then stand at my desk. Some days I teach. I keep a list of things to do. At 5:30, I run home. We eat, the kids go to sleep and the weekend comes. There were all these things that happened. I should have written them down.

Children growing up is like this, I suppose.
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