January Is an Icicle

The clock was frozen in amber, but now frost creeps up to crack the warm glow. The minute hand trembles, then moves in wistful whirls. The Christmas tree slumps, its shiny tears clinking against the wooden floor. The sugar cookies harden, then die in the confines of their cupboard coffins. The lights hug the eaves and flicker with resignation. And all the children feel a familiar pain prick their backs as they eye their backpacks warily from their beds. 

Winter is trudging along, dragging my life with it, like it always does; especially towards the end of winter break. 

If December is a snowflake then January is an icicle: slippery, sharp yet dull, stagnant sadness shaved to a point.