Stepping off the plane, the light warm weather clothes are immediately saturated. Saturated with cold New England air. Reminders of innocense immediately gush from the small upstate New-York town. The town I visit briefly every year.

The cold air is fresh and fills my lungs. My body must work harder to maintain the appropriate temperature.

It has been four days with two of my family members. My bachelor uncle and my widowed grandfather keep me company, forming three generations of related loneliness. Only, now we are not lonely. Grandfathers frail frame is strong willed. He has no fear of death. He is mentally sharp but missing his wife of over fifty years. He talks about the wastefullness of the war in Iraq and about his travels to Indonesia and Saudi Arabia My uncle ipotomizes loneliness but hides it well, like fear for Okonkwo in a moving African novel about inevitable and horrible disintegration. He has traveled the world via boat, making maps of the bottoms of the oceans, seas and straights.

None of us talk about our personal lives. We comfort each other with work and consideration. I scrape at the ice, uncle cooks the food, grandfather imparts wisdom. This quiet life suits me. The crisp weather, clean snow and complete silence erase the bags under my eyes.