in minnesota, winter means being alone.
there are couples that rent out cabins in the backwoods and cling to each other when the wolves begin to howl. they find love in their shared fear and their bodies become softer, sheltered in the heat of their rooms. there are families of six who pad their windows with blankets and the bottoms of their doors with towels to keep out the cold. the mothers cook meals for an army, the boys shoot at the birds who have not fled for the south and the girls knit together soft things out of all they are missing in the mid-winter air.
there are withered old men who live in shacks built on weary foundations. they cut down trees and burn wood because it reminds them of the lives they have lost. they listen to the music of fires and read russian novels and learn to taste nothing but destruction. they have loved, and in minnesota, that is enough.
I’m stunned by this.