I haven’t seen the snow in twelve years. I’ve forgotten the texture of seasons, the progression of clothing layers, and the smell of snow on my fingers. I’ve forgotten

what it is like to forget. The snow has seen the misery of numbed fingers, of dulled senses. The years fold like layers in the sneezing of seasons.

Is the fourth season more likely to forget as snow grows in layers and paints a new memory, envisioning a temporary beauty? Your yearly equinox is too cold to count on fingers.

My grandfather lost a finger to a particularly bitter season- he was younger then, and the years hadn’t frostbitten his soul yet. He’d forgotten the perks of having a pinky. The last time I saw my him, his neck was layered

in a scarf, his body in an additional layer of cotton, as he smoothed his crescent hairline with his finger- tips. He had to squint to see past the flurries of this season. I will never forget that this was the year

he would die-the year pneumonia and bronchitis layered inside his lungs. Lately, I’ve forgotten that air can appear from my mouth in wandering fingers of smoke-I blame the lack of Floridian seasons for dulling my memory and foresight.

The years have formed many layers of finger-tip impressions in me, and I let the seasons see for me, so I do not forget.