Josephine.

A mustard scarf wraps around Josephine's neck. A red coat the color of cherries adorns her frame. Its hood covers her hair - the color of straw under the sun. My black ski pants are a bit too big for her waist and keep falling down a bit as she runs through the snow. My boots warm her feet as she moves. She is laughing and running with Apacha.

I stop to watch them run. My dog and my best friend visiting from North Carolina. My best friend who got off a plane Saturday morning and couldn't quite catch her breath because of the crisp Pittsburgh winter air. She said the air was like ice cream - too cold but felt and tasted good.

Josephine, Josie for short, lives in Wilmington, North Carolina. An old little city on the Atlantic coast with cobblestone streets. A city that is quiet in the winter and bustling in the summer. It is 59 degrees in Wilmington today. It is 21 degrees in Pittsburgh.

Yesterday, Josie, had me stop my car so she could take a picture of the snow covered streets and the trees with patches of white on their topside. Yesterday, she looked out the window of my second story room and observed the rooftops of the Pittsburgh homes and the cars that lined the street - they all were topped with a soft down comforter. Her friends from back home warned her of the cold. I'm sure people questioned why she was traveling to Pittsburgh in the midst of winter, in the midst of snow, in the midst of cold air that is hard to swallow.

Sun or snow - we are bonded in a way that the elements can't quite combat. It's been two years since we last saw each other. Two long years. Our lives have moved us in different directions. We met in Asheville, North Carolina four years ago for Americorps Project Conserve. I remember the first time I met her. She pulled up for Americorps orientation in Brevard, North Carolina. She rolled down her window and asked if she was in the right place. I told her she was not. Confused, she started to drive off. Then, I stopped her. I told her I was kidding. She didn't think it was too funny.

Josie was a little unsure about me at first. But, that quickly changed. We bonded over music and food and hikes. After awhile, we were a bit inseparable.

It's been two years. Two long years.

Josie was there when I got Apacha from the Humane Society. They were going to put him down because he was so timid. He was so timid because he was badly abused by his previous owner. He was scared of bearded men. He was scared of long sticks and brooms. He was scared of being struck in the face. Apacha was 78 pounds when I got him. He barely ate. He hid behind me when my guy friends with beards (which was almost every guy in Asheville) came over. He was boney thin. He was frightened. He followed me around with weary eyes.

When Josie saw Apacha this time around, she was amazed. He's gained about twenty pounds since then. His winter coat was strong and he came right up to her. He trusted her and howled into the air. He wasn't scared anymore.

Now, they are running in the snow. Josie stops to wait for me to catch up. She is amazed at how active and excited Apacha is.

"He is meant for this weather," she exclaims.

"I know. It breaks my heart a bit."

We watch him run around the snow by himself. We watch him kick it up with his nose and freeze into his whiskers. He runs back to us. Josie dips herself into the snow and hugs her two arms around his mane. He is happy and panting.

Josie asks about the bench.

"Where is it?" she wonders.

"Right around this bend here." I point up the hill.

Minutes later we get there. Josie asks what is under the humps of white snow. I tell her it's gravel. Gravel for the park. Gravel to sprinkle in the spring over the paths, when we don't need to sprinkle the beads of salt over ice anymore.

Josie takes a picture of the view from the bench and says her camera doesn't do it justice. And she is right, every picture I have taken from the bench doesn't quite capture what the eye sees. But, I guess that is true for any picture we take. We are just getting a segment of what we see. We are taking a picture to remember, a picture to look back to, a picture to store that moment in time because we cannot rely on memory all the time. Pictures fill the gaps. So does writing. It fills those little holes in the mind, the moments you can't quite recall every specific detail, which happens all the time with writing about place.

She bundles some snow into her glove and attempts to compact it into a ball. It doesn't mold a shape, instead it just crumbles into a thousand little pieces. She throws it overhead, and it sprinkles down, back to where it came from.

The last time I saw Josie was in Asheville. It was my birthday. I was leaving the city for a road trip. I needed to get out. I had been there for almost four years. I was stuck. I needed to travel. I needed to find myself in another place. Josie came from Raleigh (where she was living at the time) to say goodbye. It was the tail-end of May. We went swimming in the the creek and drank PBRs and sunbathed on long flat rocks. Apacha was there, too. He dipped his warm body into the water and rested in the shade.

It's been two years. The wind pushed us in many directions. She had quit her job in Raleigh and moved to Wilmington to be with her boyfriend and started another job. Her dog passed away. Her brother got married. I had fallen in love with a man. We had traveled to Mexico. I got into grad school. I moved to Pittsburgh. All this happened in the change of eight seasons. It was sunny in Wilmington. It was snowy here.

I look to the bare branches and wonder what they represent. Winter is naked. We are clothed. We cover ourselves with layers and layers. Nature strips itself to bare bones. It doesn't need to be covered. It stands alone. Winter is a fierce moment in time.

Josie and I talk about the cold. How it makes us tired. Inside my house, the heat exhausts us. Outside our door is winter knocking. It creeps into the cracks of the windows, underneath doorways, through outlets. We can't escape it until it escapes us.

Outside, we huddle ourselves together and look out to the horizon. My right arm over her shoulder, her left arm around my waist, our two red coats blending into one.

We stand and watch time move. We wonder how long it will be until we see each other again. How many seasons will pass. What will this view look like the next time she is around? Will the eye be able to travel as far? Or will green leaves block the views? Will we be wearing shorts and tank tops? Will she still be traveling from Wilmington? Will her hair be long or short? Will we still fit into each other's clothes? Will Apacha still be around?

There is no telling in time. Only the seasons know what's coming. We can only move gently and step slowly and hope the next time around it will be better than this time around. Or it will be the same. Or it will be different.

It better not be two years. Two long years.

Two years too long.