When you live beneath trees, moss collects on the roof, traps the moisture in the ceiling. The paint peels from the walls. Hidden water trickles down beam and post, a faint scent of mildew you only catch while lying down. Every winter, the snow level rises, so every winter, you gather more defenses: purchase a dehumidifier, stuff DampRids in the corners. You wait less and less time before you shake baking soda on the carpets, stretch plastic wrap across the windows. You learn to air out sheets after washing, before folding them away. You learn certain stains only lift when you combine chemicals with pressure. Every winter, you think you can’t possibly survive another, and then you do. Every winter, you learn better how to bear the weight of water.