We cannot see winter itself. We can only find it through relations with things and people.
At a small hand cart, a young man with a trapper hat and mask roasts and sells chestnuts. It costs $5 for 1 pack. He is there every day. No holiday. The colder it is, the better it is for him.
Ten or twelve people stand around a fish-cake bar. They eat fish cakes and drink a cup of hot soup stamping their feet. Steam rising from fish rice covers them like a blanket. They look warm and happy.
In front of the bar, strawberries are on sale. Around the corner, apples and persimmons not in the season sell cheaply. My wife loves strawberries. I buy some.
Melted ice falls from wheels of passing cars. People walk carefully in the mud. A drunken old man goes zigzag. Mud spattering.
Going home, I hear rattling sound. White smoke from a chimney of someone’s apartment fades into the air. However, I smell invisible gas. Winter’s perfume. It’s kinds of my memories for the past 30 winters.
How do you know it’s winter?