Cold, but not bitter cold. The air is fresh with rain, and a mild wind blows the edges of my jacket apart. The Ukrainians always scold me for wearing my coat open, so against my natural instinct, I do up the buttons.
Once-grey pavements glimmer with cracks of light as I walk. So focused am I on the transformed ground, that I do not notice the faces passing by. Instead I see shoes; clean sneakers, brown loafers, black heels, and my own red boots. I see a stroller wheel and look up into the glassy eyes of a mother in a trim black coat. I shift to avoid her and step deep into a puddle. In its reflection, a tree raises its bare arms, nearly stripped of its leaves. Ahead, I smell cigarettes.
In the evening, the white November skies and sparkling streets give way to a crisp darkness filled with fog. From the ninth floor I look down and see fog creeping between the buildings. It rises to the level of my window and hangs, serenely, in the darkness. When I crack open the window, a biting cold licks at the edges of the warm room. Hot air is stifling. Cold air opens up the whole landscape. When I breathe in, I can sense the nearby mountains, and almost taste the air from the miles-away sea. In November I live so firmly on the edge of hope, anything is possible.
L.M. Shearer 