I’ve always been close with the snow,
since your funeral that one January.
I hadn’t really thought about why,
until I went to visit that place where
we scattered your ashes into the winds
of that blizzard in the dead of winter.
Your mother had said that the snowstorm
was the best time to let you go,
since you had always wanted to fly away.
I didn’t realize at the time I released
a fistful of your remains,
just how familiar the icy flakes felt against me.
The thing about the snow,
is that if you stand in it long enough,
you become so numb that it hurts.
You can’t feel your senses, only the winter’s cold.
And that’s as close as I’ve ever come to
explaining what it’s like being without you.