The winter season has turned its back to us all in the northern plains of the country. Last week this time the temperatures were still dropping, the air in my house was dripping wet, my fledgling limbs were numb and the tip of my nose was stony. But now I sit on my desk, wearing just three layers, and a pair of woollen socks to protect my feet. There is a remnant of chill in the air, and I wouldn’t call that winter/cold, more like a memory of a memory, a language remembered.