My daughter in Boston wins the winter wars with snow up to her shoulders. Still it is O°C here in the South of France, and the Tramantane blows incessently. I don’t even want to think of the wind chill factor. The sun is bright, the sky is blue. I knew it was cold when I saw frozen dog pee. Now that could be usual in Boston, but here it is not.
Warmth is inside writing next to my fireplace.
Monday I go up to Geneva, where my friends report the weather is not much better. I am looking forward to getting back to my place there, to walks along the lake, to sharing coffee with my writing friends, and I have been promised a fondue and a special ice cream by my best political buddy.
Warmth is given by friends.
I miss my daughter after having her live with me for a year in Geneva. I would like to share a continent with her and preferably even a country city. Ideally that would mean that we would be on the same side of the war of who has it colder, hotter, wetter, dryer. However, since that is about the only area where we disagree, I am a lucky woman.
Warmth is given by family.
War is not needed either by outdoing each other with who has the colder temperature or who has the biggest weapons.
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