You understood the transience of winter; I was too young. What you understood, specifically, I will never know, though I can say with certainty that we both tacitly recognized that whatever escaped our mouths would either decay or curse the other for the rest of their lives. What I do know now, more than ever, is that there’s something deeply unsettling about being confined in our bodies, forever condemned to our person. I’m sure you would agree, precisely because we both knew otherwise. But things worked a little differently here, where suicide was merely rest; where beautiful and pretty were one and the same; where loneliness breathed in place of us.

Where we came from, the town was set atop a mountain, cradled in a depression (I was told it used to be an active volcano). But after the ash settled and the land was made fertile, small nubby trees sprouted from the earth and the elders decided, of their own accord, to establish the little place we call home. The town is a sweet little thing. In case you’ve forgotten (it’s okay if you’ve forgotten; we were still children), I’ll remind you.

Because we were so close to the heavens, in our little town, on nights when the abashed moon turned elusive, the land remained dimly lit by the stars. According to the elders, as we knew nothing but the town, in the outside world, the stars were much smaller, and the night was darker. But here, it was as though one could reach out and grasp the stars and covet them. As children, we fantasized over this prospect, for it seemed so attainable, especially if one could make it to the top of the clock tower at the center of the town plaza. The stone bricks of the plaza were rounded by countless heels, and on a lucky day, one might uncover some change between the crevices, hidden from the grown-ups. Presently, we’d scurry over to the sweets shop (the one with the red awning; we didn’t like the other one because the owner had a terrible case of halitosis) where all the children congregated. Little Billy was always there. At the very least, whenever we visited, he was there. Plopped on the wooden bench immediately outside, he’d suckle on his lolly and dig for the occasional boogie as a palate cleanser. When he was done, he’d wipe his finger on his blotchy shirt covering his round belly. You weren’t so fond of his uncouth habits; I found him entertaining.

The man with the hand-crank music box—we called him the music man—would pass by the stone bridge right across from the shop, as part of his usual route. Once (I remember telling you), I happened upon him before his grand appearance, seemingly hiding behind a lamppost. As I was turning the corner, I witnessed him laden with a keen gravity of the eyes, almost lachrymose, which I found most surprising, but immediately after noting my presence, his eyebrows came alive, as if little tadpoles, and he spoke in animated tones. I was relieved by this sudden change, feeling that he had returned to his normal self:

“Why—you took me by quite the surprise!” After affirming my previous impressions of him, he went on to play his programmed song: Someday My Prince Will Come. At this, the other children would rush over the bridge like little puppies to greet the man and have a turn at the box. We’d join as well, but unlike the other kids, your eyes would occasionally flit to the man, wary of the slightest change in expression. You were different ever since you were a child—if you ever were one. I only realized this too late; I simply didn’t know how to love you then.

We wasted much time but we learned how to be friends, though it was still full of mistakes. You would get duly irritated, as it was a bad habit of mine to wander in my thoughts as you spoke. We also learned how to hold hands. The transition happened so effortlessly, I’m afraid I don’t remember how it happened. Probably during the winter; it gets cold. But this was a natural part of life, and I convinced myself of this. I must admit (why shouldn’t I?), it was the warmest feeling, though in some gossamer corner of my mind, I was quite worried of my sweaty palms, as if one day, you’d tear your hand away and look at them with disgust, revolted by what you had given yourself to.

But thankfully, this never happened. At that age, we were the subjects of change, rather than the surroundings, so you’d confide in me about the things you noticed. Unlike me, you weren’t so simpleminded, so these foreboding discoveries were usually about the town. I didn’t pay much attention to the things you said; I didn’t know any better.

When we finally approached the dawn of adulthood, winter came around once again, but this time, a mysterious silence claimed you. It spoke in your voice: let’s go to a place where winter lasts for eternity. Perhaps you were tired of the town in youthful rebellion. We took ourselves to the outer edge of town, to a cabin resting at the rim of the dormant volcano, where the winds were raw. This was a fragile land, teetering between the outer world and our town, where winter lingered for eternity.

Last modified on 2026-02-05