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Our date books lack ink in winter, as if the weather is as aware of us as we are of it. It offers us a reprieve from summer’s outdoor happy hours and the autumn weekends away: a season-sanctioned rest period. Winter turns us in—indoors, inward, intimate—and in these ways causes us to shift form. Like the leaves and long evenings, certain qualities of ours seem to fade and make way for a new identity.

It might be easy to see a sameness in ourselves throughout the year, and it’s a tired dig to point out the slight weight gain that seems inevitable as the temperature dives. But something more beautiful is at play, because in winter we are in flux. We assume a spectrum of textures, silhouettes, structures, sizes and sounds that belong exclusively to the season.


This story is from Kinfolk Issue Fourteen

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