Tiny droplets glisten on the glass. The pale blue dusk lends nothing in the way of inspiration. Red lights turn auras. Trees gnarl and twist. They wrap themselves round the silhouette of my imagination; shiver in the cold yoke of winter; bend themselves like unanswerable question marks. My gloves are not thick enough. I can feel her in my periphery. She just likes to stand there. Clear as the listless sky. There’s a cord that snakes its way between us. I try to keep it covered in blankets. That way she keeps warm. I do my best, you know? There are monks who live high in the Himalayas who practice Tumo meditation. By focusing their mind’s eye on a flame, they’re able to generate heat in their body. They can sweat through a cotton sheet by sheer force of concentration. Now I am no monk. But I try. Even in this dingy dishwater sky, this wan wintery expanse, I try to keep warm. I try to push that flame through the porthole of my heart. Cause it’s not just me in there. I am not alone. As much as I’d like to fight it, I am not alone. And there is no use in clinging, no use running. When the rain comes, the falsehoods go. It washes into the gutters, flows down the curbside, catches the mud. It taps its long silvery fingers against the windows, drums its Igbo rhythms in the street, sings of the inevitable transformations of life. I have grown accustomed to its beat. And I will keep my claps in kind.