On a sour, nasty wind, it traveled

'Zero dark thirty and do you know where your mother is?’
 

It echoed in the almost night-time gray, heels a click clack and slide stop clack on the ice laden cobblestone. It almost always sounded this way in December, in Massachusetts, off the bridge from Cambridge, to the smooth pavement of the city of Boston along the river.
 

Where is that point, that point between cold, chilled, slightly sleepy, sliding into frozen and coldly gone. Can you feel that point when you stopped caring, when it felt numb somehow? When the prayer you used to grit out meaningfully on bended knee, so fervently, got stiff, got stilted, got – dead. Walking dead . . .​​