Winter Nights in Black and White

It’s black and white outside, where snow continues to fall, reflected in the harsh light of two lamps. A simple greyscale exists on the spectrum of powdery white snow to the black depth of the woods. Somewhere in between rests the three grey cars along the building, all dusted in white. The air is clean and pure. The coolness sneaks a scentless fist down my throat through the cracked window. A half fallen tree bends over like a man weeping for a lost child. It’s illuminated enough to lack a shadow. Other trees, on the fringe of the lamps’ reach, barely stand out from the darkness. Their greyness is a stealthy battleship or pewter mug. It exists whether I see it or not.

I observe all this from the comfort of my self-conscious couch that is held together by a board so the back doesn’t collapse. Inside, I’m immune to the licks of wind. Tufts of snow lift up and blow down the drive. The white contrasts with the dirt left by plows. Surrounded by the soft warmth of perfect temperature, I’m tempted to open the window further, to submit myself to the cold outside. 

I was drawn to Here directed by Robert Zemeckis with Tom Hanks and Robin Wright for the cast. It’s a reunion of Forrest Gump champions. We settle down to follow one scene over the course of a thousand years. First, the formation of earth. We see glimpses of life as the house is formed and thereafter we remain planted in the living room. The movie is a meditation on place and the passage of time. “How time flies,” is a repetitive phrase. The film remains rooted while time sweeps past. After the film, I ponder my place in time, sitting by the window and gazing outside. 

I peer into the kitchen, the other rooms too dark to spy anything. Who else lived here? How did they spend their time alone? Where was their furniture placed? Was the lighting situation different? Did they look into the lamplight too?

Here was a visualization of my own thoughts. The places we habitate and visit have been lived in and stopped at before. It reminds me of visiting battlefields like Gettysburg and Spotsylvania. I fail at imagining the magnitude of crisis. Battle lines of men marching forth into cannon and musket. I reenact it, but it’s still difficult to picture it all. Walking the paved boulevards of New York City is easier to picture dirty roads full of horseshit and the newfangled bicycles. Pretty women in dresses and men in top hats. Filthy kids begging for a scrap of food. 

It’s easier to reflect on history in well-known places, but what about the history of a home? Sometimes that is most difficult. We make these places unique to us with furniture, pictures, and atmosphere. After a while, we hardly notice much. I like to take a few moments to feel gratitude for everything: the food on my counter, the spices in my cabinet, the pots and pans at my disposal, and the fridge still barely hanging on.

This habit, I’m sure, was shared by those who lived before me. I like thinking about the connections with previous generations. Despite the gap in time, technology, and life style, we are all still human. We have all felt varying emotions. Maybe that’s why I find comfort in these quiet moments, watching the snow fall and contemplating time. The past lingers in the spaces we inhabit, even if we rarely notice it. The walls around me have heard laughter and silence, grief and joy. The snow outside has blanketed countless winters before this one.
I take one last look out the window, where the lamps still cast their stark glow, illuminating the trees, the snow, and the greying cars. The world keeps moving, and so do we, but for now, I sit still, wrapped in warmth, letting time pass—just as it always has.