Cold and Cold

by Brian Barbeito

 

The cold was coming through the windows and the old lady wrapped herself in sweaters and blankets, but it was the feet that got colder and colder through the nights, no matter how many layers of socks she used. The old oven was dirty, and she could no longer clean its inside or the top properly because she did not have the strength to push down with her rag like she used to. Once, in a long ago memory, she had a different home, and tended to a garden in the summer and her family was all around her. But now, after some bad luck, she found herself alone, unwell, and always cold. Her dreams were of cities made of beautiful structures, or of rivers flowing in the sun, with small boats bobbing up and down. One time she dreamed of birds that had colors that were hard to describe, bright neon oranges and purples so dark and textured you could go into them like other worlds. In the mornings, she was startled awake by a rush of wind against the windows. She tried to tape the windows, to put towels around them, but the windows were as old as she was. The wind had a mind of its own, and never gave up. She thought that she had battled the wind long enough, and that one day it would give her rest, but that day would be in the future and not now. For now, she just sat on a chair, and closed her eyes.

 

Moshe Quinn
 

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