The Old Woman and Old Man Winter

 

 

She pulls on a once black winter parka awash with salt stains from too many Midwestern winters, and then walks out the door into another sub-zero day.

The familiar squeaky crunch of white Sorrel boots pounding the dense snowpack provides a perfect serenade as she slowly marches down her long driveway towards the rusty mailbox.

This Minnesota native soon discovers that the three pairs of woolen socks inside don’t prevent the dampness or provide much warmth anymore.

Storm after storm have worn them all weary, as is she.

After successfully navigating one final ice patch, she fumbles with her mittens and the Thinsulate gloves underneath to pull out her large snow encrusted heat and electric bills from inside the frozen box, and also one small brightly colored postcard from Florida.

As the old woman turns to walk back up to her home, a wicked wind grabs her pretty postcard and sends it flying to the south.

With a fist in the air she screams, “And I live here, why?”

Muttering to herself, she then softly answers, “I guess it’s because I never left.”

And with that she smiles, and then laughs while catching a wet snowflake on her tongue.