The dreary times were soon to pass.
No matter that her breath still steamed both outdoors and inside the drafty house. No matter that her red fingers barely bent with swelling and that the chilblains on her toes still burned and ached and itched. No matter that she took so long to warm come night that she almost despaired of sleeping.
The dreary times were soon to pass.
She knew.
True, it was still frosty.
But the cold was dying.
She knew, because the ice formed only on the very edges of her washbasin and because what frost adorned the ground in the morning would transmute into miniature mirrors of dew by the time the sun rose higher in the sky.
And because she saw the primrose.
Blooming.
Out there.
In audacious glee.
If the tiny flowers could endure the remnants of frigidity, so could she.
For Crispina’s Crimson’s Creative Challenge
Na'ama Yehuda 
Beautifully written,my friend.
To think my mom lived for years in what they called the camp – her father was a lumberjack – and when they woke up in the morning, the water was frozen in the kettle…
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Oh, wow. I didn’t quite have THAT kind of cold in the house I grew up in, but we did have the puffy swollen red fingers and the chilblains on fingers and toes … and a cold inside the house that let one see one’s own breath … So, yeah, while it was not QUITE frozen, it sure felt frosty …
Kudos to your Mama and all the generations who lived through breaking the literal ice in the morning. …
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Yep. Out in the woods, no electricity. You could see daylight between the cracks of the wood!
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A bit more rustic than I’d choose to live in … at least in the colder months. Perhaps won’t mind so much in the summer. (just need lotta bug repellent … 😉 )
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That’s a given! You couldn’t pay my mother to go back there!
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Your Mama be smart! 🙂
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🙂
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That is both beautiful and painful. 🙂
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Thank you, Crispina! I good balance, I hope … 🙂
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Yes, indeed
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🙂
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