Being originally from California, it’s odd to people when I tell them that I remember the cold the most. It’s a type of cold where you can’t seem to get warm no matter what. When we moved to Montana, I remember our first winter feeling so much warmer than our winters in the Sierra Nevadas. I have memories of the cold. I remember one night being in the back of a truck and curling up into a tire trying to escape the cold of the night air. I don’t remember who I was with, where we were or where my mother was, but I remember the cold. I get this cold feeling again usually when we go camping, in the middle of the night when the temperature has dropped out in the mountains, but it passes much more quickly than in my childhood memories. The other night I felt that cold creeping in, while laying in my bed. No matter how much I cuddled under the blankets or how close I got to my husband the cold wouldn’t go away. I finally thought to myself, I could just close the window. I closed the window but the cold didn’t leave until morning. This cold not only brings discomfort with it but also a flood of memories from being a young homeless child and trying to keep warm. I grew up in the cold and no matter where I am it always seems to find me every now and then. Even in the middle of summer. I’ll just keep closing the window.