As the weather of late fall became increasingly cold, I moved more and more inside the cabin. There was nothing that had to be done outside, and for a time it was pleasant just to stand at a window and watch the season turn silent, fold me into itself; especially the cloudy days, they seemed softer than the others; when the sun shone it was like a challenge to be sharp and clear like the day, but the clouded ones just fell around me and asked nothing, and I was full of contentment and safety. I felt alone, very much alone.

I watched the land for days as it changed, turned bleak and tough for the winter ahead, leaves gone, grass shrivelling under frost, no flowers now. The changes came swiftly, so that I could almost see the dying. There were only a few days when the cold released and there was rest from change.

And then there was a bitter day, with knifing winds that cut through the brittle willow branches so that they scraped and hammered at the cabin. I watched and listened and then I turned back to the inside for warmth and comfort, thinking how these two, the cold outside and the heat within made a world that was complete. And when I turned, seeking the softness of the cabin, it was gone, only harshness here, too, and I recoiled from what was there.

I don’t know where she came from, the old Abra, but she was standing by the kitchen table, leaning on it with one hand, the other on her hip, accusing, looking at me with reproach and sorrow and yes, some pity, and I saw her so clearly that I wanted to run, to see myself in a mirror so that I could know who I was. I knew we were divided now, but not like this, not as if she still existed.

When I looked again, she was gone, and I thought, “But is she, really, or is she only hiding, waiting to come back,” and I thought, “I must be mad. I must have gone mad, must still be mad, for what am I doing here?”

It was the season, I can see that now, that brought the sudden forced drive into myself that followed. There had been some questioning before, to be sure, even some objectivity, that unfortunate habit of standing back to put words to what I was doing. But it had not come like this, not so sharply before.