In December the winter weather rolls in and tucks the valley in with a fluffy white blanket of snow. People usually bring out their extra blankets and space heaters. My bed has typically has seven blankets on it. I don't use the blankets for the heat as much as I use them for the weight, if I have any less than seven I feel like I might blow away. In December, I add an extra blanket to the mass, a blue and white one my grandmother made for me which I have always called the Cloud Blanket. The Cloud Blanket is the one that keeps the cold out so I don't freeze, like how the earth's atmosphere keeps the cold of space out of earth so humans don't freeze.
In December, the cold is at it's worst. The wind screams at everyone's clothes and everyone's hair, looking for vulnerability. The wind speaks it's own language, but will try to cut the flaws from your sentences. The snow has grown tired of the wind, and tired of existing so it sits on the ground with silent disinterest, leaking it's apathy into your soles, numbing your toes.
I lay beneath my eight blankets, protected from the prying wind and sighing snow. The heavy blankets hold me down, they keep me from blowing away, they keep me from losing the feeling in my toes, but they hold me in my bed. The blankets are a comforting weight, a warm hug, but they hold me in place. The blankets serve to protect me from the wind and snow, and a reminder of the bitterness of December.
The warm blankets make the world grow colder, they make me forget what the wind and snow feel like, and I lose the desire to remember. I believe the wind once had something kind about it, it's voice wasn't harsh once, but soft and melodic, and the snow used to wink and sparkle with effervescence. Maybe I was naive. It is only cold now, was it ever any more?
Sometimes I think the blankets make it worse. I could be imagining things, I could be crazy, but I swear the more I retreat to my blankets, the more the wind tries to rip them off, and the more the snow tries to leach its cold into me. One would think that they would realize that the harder they try the less I want to come outside. It's a ridiculous thought. No one can control the weather. That's too much power for one person. I can't have the power. I don't want that power.
Besides, what if I come out, and the wind, instead of calming, ripped the flesh from my bones, and the snow, instead of glistening, sighed with such cold disinterest it sucked the soul from my body?
But if the weather has such an effect on me, why not me on the weather?
It does not matter, anyhow. The year is almost over. It's December. The snow will melt into whispering grass and the winter wind will become more occupied with the budding trees of spring than the people of the winter.
While this story can literally be about how it's cold in December and I use a lot of blankets (because I do) but there are two other metaphorical interpretations, that can both be seen as true.