Notes on cold

The thermometer outside the kitchen window said minus twenty-three this morning. The air was so still that the smoke from every chimney in the street went straight up in thin grey columns, like pencil lines.

I went out anyway, mostly to see what it looked like.

What it looked like: everything furred with frost, the snow squeaking under my boots, the river frozen except for one dark channel in the middle where the current is fastest. A crow sat on the railing of the footbridge and did not move as I walked past, as if it had decided that moving was not worth it today. I understood.

After many winters of getting it wrong, here is what I have finally learned about dressing for this:

• Wool next to the skin. Never cotton.
• Two thinner layers are warmer than one thick one.
• Mittens, not gloves. Gloves are for people who need their fingers more than they need to keep them.
• Cover your face before it hurts, not after.
• Come home before you want to.

Back inside, the kettle, the radiator, and the specific pleasure of feeling your face slowly return. Toast with butter. I sat by the window for a long time watching the smoke columns and did nothing at all.