Winter

An intricate metaphor.

It was, as one could imagine, a sincere silence. In the sweet serenity of a chilling December night, the roads intertwined as they wrapped around the side of the mountain. The roads were slick, as often is the case in a Colorado winter. This winter, however, was unseasonably cold. It was too cold to snow, even in this low ridge of the mountain.

The wind bit at every forsaken soul forced to exit the blissful ignorance of the indoors. Those inside, far below the road, didn’t seem to notice the night, though why would they? They were warm. The wind was dangerous, yet crisp. The night was clear, and the moon reflected lightly off the slick mountain road.

The trees were bare. They were naked, stripped to the skin. The Winter began to move in on the trees during the fall, seducing them. By early December the Winter had gently caressed the trees with Its wind-tipped fingers, stripping the trees to the skin. This would be where the trees would remain until the Spring brought with It new clothes for them.

Despite the Winter’s often ulterior motives, on nights like this, nothing seemed more sincere. It could be refreshing. It could be refreshing to experience the Winter’s harsh honesty. It did not hold its tongue. If you were not dressed appropriately, It would bite at your legs. If your health was not good, It would exploit it. If you were not prepared, Its slippery surface would not forgive you. The Winter held no bias. It was a harsh judge.

It was into this environment that Mr. Liorhan stepped. Mr. Liorhan was coming back from his second tour in Iraq. He had missed these Colorado nights. He decided to go for a drive. He knew very well how the Winter behaved. The Winter was an old friend of his. He had missed It dearly. He greeted It as a long-lost brother.

Mr. Liorhan spun his tired wheels, warming the cold ground. The headlights flashed as if the old wagon was opening its eyes after a very long nap. Mr. Liorhan smiled. The wagon used to be blue, although now it was a strange mixture of rust, faded blue, and salt from the ground. It was weathered, he liked to call it.

He left his dilapidated shack behind him. He traveled upward against the mountain, hugging it tightly as if it had been far too long since the two had been graced with each other’s presence. The wheels crunched the icy ground. He was no stranger to this road. It was eerily similar to many he had traveled in Iraq. At least, it seemed to be to him.

The Winter tapped against Mr. Liorhan’s window, and Mr. Liorhan smiled. This Winter was much friendlier than the one in Iraq. It seeped through the wagon’s old vents and into the car. Mr. Liorhan shivered, but he did not turn on the heat. He had had enough heat in the last 16 months. The Winter’s wind-tipped fingers tugged at Mr. Liorhan’s shirt. It wanted him.

At first, when he was a boy, Mr. Liorhan didn’t like the way that the Winter wanted him. It begged him to come out with sunshine, making It look much warmer than It was. Once he was outside, It would tug at him relentlessly. It seemed to relish him. It would wrap its wind-tipped fingers around his shoulders in a cold hug.

Over the years, Mr. Liorhan stopped minding that chilling hug. When he was deployed, he missed it. No one else understood. Now that he was back, he relished the crisp tug at his shirt. In the wagon, with the Winter, he felt content.

As Mr. Liorhan continued to drive, the Winter crisply rushed across his face. Mr. Liorhan smiled. The Winter tugged at his shirt, this time harder. Its harsh wind bit at him. For the first time in a long time, Mr. Liorhan had the urge to turn up the heat. As if the Winter sensed this, it seized him violently. It tugged at his shirt, and Mr. Liorhan jerked the wheel to the left.

The wagon crossed over the edge of the road into a free fall. The Winter rushed out of the vents as the wagon fell. Mr. Liorhan didn’t have time to react. The wagon crashed through the top of trees and hit the dead forest floor with a thud. Mr. Liorhan didn’t move. The wagon didn’t explode, but it was damaged beyond repair. The Winter consumed Mr. Liorhan in a fit of pride. It had taken him, all of him. It had even taken his life.

The crisp night air, down below the ridge, down past the shack and down in the village, all was still. No one knew of Mr. Liorhan. No one would be bothered by his disappearance. They lay in their beds. Outside the Winter howled.