My Place, My Space by Anna Kingston

I leave the house and bury my cold hands in my coat pockets immediately.  My breath steams in the frigid air, and the returning inhaled icy breath shocks my lungs, nearly making me cough.  I’m almost tempted back inside for another hot coffee, but I’m pulled back by the magnetism of the place.

Walking gingerly on yesterday’s slush, now glistening and rock hard in the watery, early morning light, I walk down to the footpath that leads through the fields.  With each footstep I take, I slip a little on the ice, and it feels like hard going even though it’s a route I’ve taken hundreds of times, a path burned into the neural pathway in my brain.

The path up through the field crunches under my feet - frozen ice and grasses alike giving way at each step.  How silent it is! - no traffic sounds to break the stillness of early morning, not even a hardy dog walker, with their charge wrapped up against the cold. This liminal space is mine for a little while longer.

I reach the road now, the frosted greens of path and field giving way to iced roofs, Jack Frost-painted car windows, and frozen lumps of snow on the pavement.  The air is still but clear, no neighbours stir yet, all firmly tucked up beneath quilts and blankets agains the cold.  I pass crystal gardens, baubles of frozen ice and snow adorning the flowers that were fooled into blooming last week, chains of tiny diamonds making up spiders’ webs, even their owners nowhere to be seen (thankfully!)

Still further uphill, I’m now out of breath due to the cold and the aerobic effort - this IS a big hill, even though I’ve trodden it countless times over the years.  Part way up I stop, out of puff, turning to lean on the fence, and now I can see part of town laid out before me - only the closest bits, as mist still shrouds the rest for now.  The mist moves a little, like a liquid in slow motion, revealing and hiding, teasing little glimpses of rooftops and towers.  

Round the corner, and one final pull up the steps that aren’t steps, walking on the grass as the stones are glassily lethal.  Breathing slowing, finally, I make my way around the frosted paths and across crisp, icy grass and leaves. I’m warmer now, from the steep uphill hike, and even unzip my coat, welcoming the nip in the air for now.   I climb the steps to the tower door, frost coating hinges and keyhole like sparkly, white paint, and lean on the wall, surveying my place, my space below me.  How many times have I stood in this very spot, looking for my home, my school, friends’ homes, tracing pathways with my eyes, now tracing them back in time to my childhood?

I know the very stones of this place, the ghost of the building no longer there, the Big Dipper sweep of the old moat, and the little old trees that I played in as a child, years before my own children did the same.  This hill is ancient, the tower a mere 120-odd years, but they’re landmarks of my childhood and life - picnics, time with friends, angry escapes from family rows, and often just peace for me.

This is my place, my space, and for now it’s truly all mine in the early morning winter sunshine.