Taking crunching steps through the snow,

I glance sidelong towards the town.

The vibrant lights evoke a distracting happiness.

Someone is eating a cheese omelet,

laughing to a sly joke, cuddling a pet near 

a fire, enjoying the things they enjoy.

Someone is trying to build a snowman, with 

gloved hands, the suggestions of a friend,

with raised smiles, talking lips, and beaming eyes.

The wind whistles in itching tones,

swift and gentle tones, slow and violent,

orchestrating a nostalgic chorus.

A bird rests perched on a leafless branch.

A squirrel hides in the warmth of a log.

A raccoon rustles in the edges of a bush.

I breathe in the frost of the air.

Air so sweet and familiar, 

yet bitter and repulsive.

A decrepit lodge seizes my sight.

I blink and the withered logs heal an almond brown.

I blink again, a father and child sprout from the snow.

Their interlocked hands and mild chatter,

radiantly shines over the surrounding area.

Though distance obscures their two faces to a blur,

I seem to recognize them without name.

A familiarity wells up in my head,

but a bloodied lip recedes the thought.

The perched bird takes flight from the tree and a pile of

snow springs off onto the ground in an echoing thud.

Immediately, everything dissolves to its ugly present.

As though yanked by a friend, my mind clears.

My headache dissipates and my tightened fists relax.

I feel much better, but strangely enough, empty.

I attempt to recall the prior events and suddenly

a sharp needle pries against my chest. I cringe, 

but a fleeting sense of fulfillment compels me to persist

Who was the son and father? 

Who are the two of them to me?

Who am I to them?

I walk past the town once more, gazing

towards the elated children and families.

A bitter sadness evokes itself,

Torn between remembrance and forgetfulness