It is the longest night. A full ghost moon shows phantasmal through a thin gauze of cobweb clouds, remnants of an earlier storm. Snow glitters like diamonds, giving off an eerie, supernatural glow. Despite the fact the fact it's winter, and ninety-one sixty above the surface of the world's oceans, the night air is only a little crisp, but not that cold at all.
Teenagers, immortal and arrogant in their adolescence, zip down the snow-packed lanes on snowmobiles. At this age, they know everything, including the fact they might be impervious to the dangers of zipping down the icy winter lanes in and around a small mountain township. As an older man, perhaps a little envious of their invincibility, I want to tell them to take notes. To realize they are only immortal for a limited time.
But I know better. The young never listen to those they see as old. And old at that age is anyone over the age of twenty-five. I'm thirteen years past twenty-five, and know full well at that age I'd have not listened to someone my age trying to dispense the advice I'd give.
I sip genmaicha tea and enjoy a bowl of chili, bidding my time. A freshly purchased bottle of wine waits patiently on the table. In about an hour, once Sabina gets home, I will be heading out the door.
We have been invited to the annual Solstice party. There, on the longest night, amongst friends, acquaintances, neighbors, and possibly strangers, we shall rage against the dying of the light. Orbital wisdom dictates the sun will take a little longer to set the next day, incrementally moving toward the longest day.
It looks to be a fun time, and I am excited to go. But I bide my time, just as I do for the days to get longer, and longer, into the next Solstice. So it goes. It's okay. My patience is formidable.