The Grape Cape

Walk through flurries of snow. One step in front of the next. You might yet get where you wanted to go... And where was that? Ah yes, the Boulangerie, for croissants; the Marché for fruit. Grapes. Such a luxury at this time of year. Grapes, plump and juicy and full of promise, like you used to be. Luscious and sweet; not shrivelled and bitter, like your mind's becoming now, tired and dried-out by too many winters; too much mental trudging through mountains of difficult snow. Summers and grapes used to be so simple and delicious. Now, all you have is a cape the colour of their skin to remind you of what it felt like to have youth covering you, and a hat like a boomerang so that the remembering comes back. When everything was just-right and no hardship insurmountable.

But now, this weekly meandering is all you know, memories swirling around your ankles like powdery snow...

Where was it you were supposed to be going?