This Winter Is A Cold Grief

This winter is a cold grief.

And I have run from it before and it has caught up with me again, its force two-fold for the winter I skipped last year.

Oh, to be on that six-month road trip of fear and longing through Cairo's smoky streets again, kept warm by the heat of old flames rekindled and the new but familiar possibilities of my city spiralling ever-backwards in time.

This winter is a cold grief.

And my escape from its icy choke-hold grip has not lasted very long, for I am here again. In my feelings, again, which are heavy with their pitiful unforgettability.

This winter is a cold grief.

And all the leaves have been taken from the trees and the birds that used to sing cannot be seen or heard anymore.

Good riddance, the grief says. This is not a time for singing.

This is a time for silence. Interiority. Fear. This is not a concerto of sorrow, but a breath you hold in the cold, alone.

This is the compounded silence of extinct species, one after the other -- dead.

Each name listed shamelessly in our histories under the heading: we could have tried better.

And it will continue like this.

Until the gasp of relief that will come when we finally see an end to the writing. When we finally stop writing our history books as chronicles of death.

§

My climate anxiety had lessened in my first weeks with the wildlife trust for whom I now work in the mild-mannered wilderness of the English countryside. There was a swelling feeling in September that my life had purpose, that my efforts were meaningful, that there was perhaps still reason for hope in humanity.

And then war broke out on the border of the only place I have ever felt immediate and unconditional belonging in this world. And we all know borders are a fiction of cartography and empire. Palestine caught in the crossfire.

So, in the last few weeks - hope gone to hell - I have dreamed of bombs falling into the glittering sea. I stand there, on a ship, watching my tranquil peace transform into exquisite horror as the sky rains metal and I realise how many will die.

Countless unseen people will die, below the surface of the bombing. And they will sink to the bottom of the sea and their silence will weigh heavy on this world. This world that stood there and did nothing to stop it.

We have to stop it.

We have to STOP IT, I am screaming at the top of my lungs to everyone, anyone, who can hear me. There are others on this ship but they don't seem to understand my panic. They look at me blankly, consult their watches and nod to themselves: this is the regularly scheduled programming, it's written out right here and so there's no stopping it now, see?

A man in a suit hands me a time sheet. I can't read it. I can't believe what I'm heari-- then, a bell rings calling all shipmates to dinner.

A door opens into a lavish dining room, set with silk napkins and polished silverware, painted china and sparkling crystal. Everyone takes their seat at the table as waiters in gloves bring out trays of roast chicken and grilled meat, vegetables and sweet treats. The room is quiet and I am almost distracted by the display before I remember.

The bombs: falling, constant, over the defenseless blue sea.

No! How can you eat at a time like this? I have to get off this ship.

I have to get off this ship. I can't be here... only, it becomes clear, I also can't leave.

In a panic of indecision and fear I feel my guts coming up through my throat. I fold over, letting the disgust rip full force through me.

The dream continues. I am vomiting without pause or breath for what feels like days, to the sound of clinking cutlery and running commentary over dinner, as the world outside, as I know it, ends.

Eventually, I wake up in my warm bed in a country of white men that constitutionally oppose a ceasefire.

§

This winter is a cold grief.

And there is no place on the internet for this feeling. There is no language or form, no meme or gif or tiktok sound bite, that can make any of this feel any lighter. Or bearable. Or real.

So, I turn inward. I become silent. I shut off from the world, its bombings and dying seas fueling my fears.

At work, I light a fire in the woods.

I teach the children how to toast marshmallows and I watch the colour of the pine change as it catches, crackles, and burns.

I watch the once neat pile of logs morph into a heap of coals and smoke.

I let the fire burn everything that once was living until it is red and then it is black and then it is grey, and then it is released back into the air from whence it came.

I try to remember that everything will follow this pattern.

Even this winter.

Even this breath.