Winter's Pause

She, an aged woman in black, feeling a bit wistful for days gone by, allows herself to be, without becoming bored, alone. Inside, not exhausted, she romps and rolicks ‘round and ‘round like a whirling snowflake, her mind filled to the brim with a cluster of images. Musing, she is the child there, a little reserved and shy. An undersized girl, as cute as a button, with green eyes and curly brown hair timidly offering her hand to the woman standing by herself in the very next frame, bundled up in amongst a casual spread of light. Absorbed, she takes pause in the shadow of her former self radiating from some other winter’s afternoon. 

The train slowly pulls away, breaking all silence. A weighted snowball of ice dislodges and falls. Unbound it spirals and begins to fragment.

. . . . .

We do not grow absolutely, chronologically. We grow sometimes in one dimension, and not in another; unevenly. We grow partially. We are relative. We are mature in one realm, childish in another. The past, present, and future mingle and pull us backward, forward, or fix us in the present. We are made up of layers, cells, constellations.

– Anais Nin