Five Months of Winter

She stops knitting, her gnarled hands immobile, the needles resting against her thumbs, and the ball of coarse wool in her lap. Outside, the sun dips behind the row of pines they planted years ago, to stop the wind coming in fast across the fields, even now, the windows rattle from November to March. I shiver, and say I’ll make some tea, but she says not to bother, she never cared for it. The only reason there’s any in the house, was for her sister, who passed away three years ago, but she keeps buying it because sometimes she forgets.

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