It is always winter here: frost and grey wind and wool scratching the skin and, sometimes, starlight. Dried leaves come unstuck from concrete where the snow left them, gasping shapes waiting to speak of death on Ash Wednesday. His eyes are iceberg blue, and he moves like a wounded animal, still and then sudden, without sound, except shuddering breaths in the crook of my arm. A mute kiss on the head, and he grips more tightly. I cannot comfort him;... Read more