This could easily be attributed to the holidays, or to the scent of dead leaves, or to the looming end of one year enabling the beginning of another. However, to me it is this way because of the empty spaces. The trees are lonely in the cold - isolated. Frost embalms the decayed plant life, and the sun lies only briefly upon their icy heads.
Vero Moda knit vest as scarf, vintage boots, vintage oversized Alfred Sung coat.
This coat belonged to my grandmother. It is beautifully cut with menswear lines in its gracefully aged thick navy wool. When you put your hands inside the silk pockets you can still feel the crevices left behind from where my grandmother used to store crisp white peppermints in starched wrapping paper. She would slyly deposit one in your hand as you stood by her, the secret between you shared with no one else. Not even a glance was made at the transaction, for she never made eye-contact with you as you suckled on the mint with delight.
Now that I feel inside the pockets I can feel the empty spaces, the vacancies of the peppermints. Their wrappings are gone, their saccharine clots swallowed, and yet I somehow feel happy about this absense. In this way the spaces of winter are familiar, and with familiarity comes the feeling that one is safe.
