They are the only ones that know me. I am the only one who knows them. Two chilly hands with no warmth or comfort. Two who should be inside at this time of night, but are bickering to stay. Two resounding reasons to go inside. From the yard we hear her, but the fun has just started.

Their vice is the cold winter’s night. They send chilling signals through my body. They are the movement and creativity from my mind that acts as it pleases because, for now, they haven’t a care. This is how I know.

Let one forget their reason for being, they’d all be the same, each with no edge over another. Heat, heat, heat, hands say in my gloves. They plead.

When I am too old and to immobile to keep playing, when I am the one watching from the window, then it is I who is saying it’s time. When I come back, and realize that I should have stayed out a little longer. Two who played despite my mothers’ plea. Two who play and have not stopped since. Two whose only reason is to displace that fresh sheet the morning after it’s placed.