When the cold hit my nose, I welcomed it. My neck did not.
Some parts of me like the crisp air, feel more alive, more awake and crave it. Other parts cringe and try to hide when they sense the slightest breeze. If my fingers are cold, I might as well call it a day and head inside because they make the rest of me miserable.
The air this day was very very cold. And my need to feel it was stronger than my need to be warm, so I walked along the beach, winter coat zipped to the top and hands in my pockets, covered in gloves, hoping they wouldn’t notice.
It was strange to be here on a cold day. We had only been to this beach in the heat of July or even August. Stepping off the walkway was always a challenge - if you could make it to the cooler sand by the water before your feet began to scream in pain, you were lucky. I usually did a ludicrous dance of running, walking fast, stepping on shells or sharp pieces of sea grass and trying not to fall over as I made my way to the edge.
Windy gusts from the water were no more powerful than on those hot days of summer, but their strength was magnified by the cold. I felt sorry for the birds, feathers ruffled and tossed about. But they didn’t seem to care. This was normal for them. I wanted to give them a blanket, a scarf, something for shelter. But they scattered as I approached just like they do on warm days, then landed just out of reach to resume their rest, their search for food, their lives.
This air was theirs, no matter the temperature. I was just visiting.