I’ve been waiting for her patiently and, at last, she came.
She began to snow in the night.
Everyone on my street must have been asleep by then, snoring or dreaming.
It was as if she was snowing only for me.
I took my camera with me through the snowflake stings.
It would be such a pity to sleep this tiny blizzard, I thought.
Something about the footsteps I was leaving behind on the newly fallen snow that made me feel proud.
The steady march of the cyclops lamp posts kept me company.
I marched on farther and farther away from home.
At the edge of my neighborhood, there is a small train station; beyond it, a forest.
I go there sometimes when I feel like wandering.
I climbed up the incline to the deserted train station.
No train would be coming for me, I knew, not now.
It was there that the wolf of cold, her pet, sneaked behind me and bit my wrist, my hand.
Every photographer knows what it means to have a glass hand.
But my right hand felt like a small price to pay for, at last, a night of snow.