Floor vent

The snow has started to fall.




Not here exactly, but still, the cold wet rain that is the remorseless usher of snowfall certainly has.
As I steel myself against the cold rain, I always start plotting how to get warmer boots and more waterproof clothing at this time of year.   I fantasize about being toasty as an element inside me starts to calibrate to the falling temperature.


We work hard to heat up the molecules in the room in which we sit and play.
How will we keep the molecules warm this week, this month, this season?




I get there soaking wet--a chilly cold has set in that is hard to warm up from, but my friend has a floor vent, and that changes everything. The heat rushes up to meet me.  I quickly take off my socks and stretch them across the grate eagerly anticipating their dryness against my skin. I stood over that grate, just for a moment, to fully experience the blast of heat.






I turned my attention to my friends, and over the next hour, I almost forgot that heating grate, I almost took for granted how ready that heat was compared to how vanquished it was just metres from where I sat on the other side of that wall. But the wine, and the grate and the company cast a spell and my mind did not wander to how to get warmer boots even once.






But as, I went back outside and returned to our house to heat up the molecules again, the memory of being warmed, warmed me through.






Those snowflakes and rain drops fall fast down towards the boiling red lit from within structures that we build against them. Little do they know how fragile those structures are under their weight.

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