Brooke Forbes

On the white below children gather around the frost-licked play equipment.  You can see a few pull on the swing chains and stand at the base of slides, and a few hover around the playground’s edge, squat in half-slush and mould balls from ice wads. One boy uses a wipe of his finger to reveal the slide’s plastic red. Every now and then the children stare each other down. They cock their heads sideways and wait for a reaction.

If you watch for long enough the groups will meet in acts of urgency –  Kick, throw, reshuffle, kick, throw, reshuffle. Hold fort, watch them now, they will divide and conquer. Little people in snow suits ruffling, all those tiny limbs falling. I have seen it before; their sharp-eyed movements will whip-up snow storms.

We don’t turn our heads to watch. We are sitting at the kitchen table full of ordinary things; papers, jug of milk, fake China. It is the time of day to rest. We are sitting over cups of tea and flicking nervous glances at each other’s hand movements.

‘Part of the rural infrastructure’, you once declared, ‘background noise on Sundays’.

Once, I remember, you were part of the outside noise.

Once, I remember, you were a life-form.

But not today as we sit measuredly, inhaling puffs of steam from freshly-poured tea.

I take a peppermint-scented breath and then something inside me snap.

“Let’s go!” I say, rushing towards the door, flinging it open and letting the coolness break through our inside comfort.

“Let’s go and be done with it!”

I rush out the door of the apartment and down the stairs and out into the snow – no time to put on snow boots, no time for coats.

I fling myself into the softness, carving snow angels as you watch from above.

And when I re-enter, I did re-enter, when I re-enter you were there, sitting, scared. So I stood in the door-way and looked right back at you, sucking cold air in and pushing it out.