January

There is an agonizing ache in my heart. It is not for lack of affection, for there is no kindness there to share. It is a dreary throb, monotonous and thin. Barely enough to keep me alive, not enough by which to live. January howls through my bones, the suns warmth barely interrupts the long nights. The days are gray, dismal, gloomy, tedious.

The freeze of winter creeps across my soul. My nerves shatter with even the slightest touch. My eyes would cry if not for the ice that binds them. My mind desires long sleeps. The strain of life tears at my back. Oh what I would give for an escape from this madness. What cost would be exacted? What have I left to give?

The pull of my Chippewa ancestors is strong. It is the time for hibernating, yet this life of mine requires that I conduct myself with purpose. But only an ache lives where that purpose should be. I have no taste for the next 50 days. I wish only to sleep until spring.