Blacks are black. Greys are infinite. The surprises are red and ochre and frosty sage. My toes lose feeling—it’s cold—but I’m distracted by a passing train and the beauty of ice hanging in the air over freshly turned clods of earth.
The walk concludes through what my children and I refer to as the secret passageway, a tiny alley lined by overwintering vegetable gardens, chicken enclosures and rusted gates. You emerge through two houses, an arm’s span apart, with a view of the seasonal sentiments strung out along a gate. Joyeuses Fêtes. Happy Holidays. Not a soul in sight. The air heavy with silence and the incense of burning logs.