1. one sense

A feathery snowflake brushed against my cheek. Then another. And another. With each came a brushstroke of chill; a momentary burn of cold. As the flakes came faster, the light, airy quality began to be replaced by a sharp, stinging sensation, accompanied by an almost imperceptible numbness in my fingertips, my toes, and the very end of my nose. With each passing moment, I became more aware of the brittleness of any small motion; the very topography of the skin on my face. There was no need to fight to hold back tears: each pore was already acutely aware of the certainty of each tear freezing. The burning warmth of tears would have to wait.

Closer together we huddled, breath and body heat creating a short-term barrier to the unending storm. The crack of the guns mixed with the peal of churchbells were palpable currents in the air around us. The last words were spoken just as turning to stone began to sound appealing, satisfying, safe. Breaking apart from each other, slowly moving toward the cars, my heart began to beat in normal rhythm, leaving behind the only warmth adrenaline had brought to my core. Part of me looked forward to defrosting.

Part of me wanted nothing more than to remain cold, stiff, and frozen.