I’ve got no strings

to hold me down, to make me fret to make me frown…

Or perhaps now I do. I am a permanent resident of Canada, now. I am not sure how long I have to live here before winter is no longer alien. The hush that comes from a world freshly powdered with snow. The crisp bite of wind that slips in the seams of your coat to nip and bite at your skin. The bitter chill of a walk through the slush.

I’ve learned to read a different type of weather report. To know that a heavy snowfall will make it feel warmer than it is, but a high humidity will make it feel far colder. To know that less dense wool coat will keep me far more comfortable than my thicker fabric coat, as it will repel the damp from melted snowflakes.

The joy of knitting is partly the art of creation, and partly the satisfaction that comes from keeping your loved ones warm and dry. Felted wool mittens let children throw all the snowballs they want, and fingerless cabled mitts let me take pictures of them playing. A lace wool scarf knit by a friend makes me smile at it’s beauty, and keeps me warm.

I know all these things from the winters I’ve spent up here. Yet every time I look out my window and see the deep snow drifts, the world feels alien and different. I wonder if I could ever go back home or if the chill of a desert winter would even need a coat any more. If I could stand under the wide desert sky that seemed so vast when I was young. The cold crisp chill of the desert winter sending everyone hiding inside, underground. The stars glittering on a deep black velvet of the sky.

Here, there is too much light pollution. I think back to that inky dark sky and I miss it. The grey sky tinged a slightly sickly yellow from streetlamps with fat white reminders drifting down that I am so, so far away from what I knew. And yet I feel at home.