We will not see the North in winter. We will not see the snow. This is too gentle a
sadness to be given the bitter name of sorrow, for it is no calamity. Indeed, it is of woes the most absurdly trifling. Thus do I chide myself, but it seeps into all things like an ear- worm, tinting and tainting what it touches. We will not see the North in winter. We will not see the snow. Like the single slice of cloud grafted onto a clear sky that draws every eye away from the sun, like the acrid aftertaste of honey not harvested from an orange orchard, this strange melancholy penetrates against all reason to the marrow of my bones. We will not see the North in winter. We will not see the snow. Like a chaunt, a talisman, a litany, a spell whispered by kindly witches, it mesmerises, shielding my foolish heart from itself, from the verdict of destiny: no time, no money, no mountains. We will not see the North in winter. We will not see the snow.
Hibah Shabkhez is a writer of the half-yo literary tradition, an erratic language-learning enthusiast, and a happily eccentric photographer from Lahore, Pakistan. Her work has previously appeared in Pleiades, Miracle Monocle, Glassworks, Windsor Review, Moria, CommuterLit, and a number of other literary magazines.
Linktree: https://linktr.ee/HibahShabkhez