Winter day in Kennebunk

It’s the middle of winter in Kennebunk, Maine, and the snow has been falling since before dawn. The world outside is wrapped in a soft, gray light, the kind that makes the white of the snow glow and the dark branches of the pines stand out in sharp relief. Inside the old Maine house, the woodstove hums its steady tune, crackling and sighing, filling the rooms with a heat that seeps into every corner. For some, it’s too warm, too close, too heavy. I’m Martin, the Maine Coon cat, and for me, it’s just another winter day. I stretch myself across the wide pillow by the window, whiskers twitching, pressing against the glass where the cold slips in. The chill comforts me in a way the humans will never quite understand.

They call me king of the house, though I never asked for the title. My fur is long and thick, suited for the wicked cold of Maine winters, and I prefer the edge of the window where the icy air seeps through the wood frame. The house itself is what you’d expect in Kennebunk: a weathered clapboard structure with navy shutters, a sloped roof so snow won’t linger, and a porch with chairs no one dares to sit in this time of year. The walls are lined with framed poster prints, maps, and old photographs of my owners from their travels. The humans, a kind but fussy pair, are collectors of many things: memories, stamps, art. They run what they call a print shop, though to me it’s just another excuse to cover the walls with color and chatter about “customers.”

They fuss with the woodstove too often for my taste. The crackling warmth swells, pressing heavy into the room, and I press closer to the window. Out there, the snow swirls, soft and endless, coating Kennebunk in the kind of winter blanket that makes time move slower. Some days it feels as if the world is holding its breath, waiting for spring, but I know better. Winter here is not a pause; it is the heartbeat itself.

The humans talk about lunch as they button their coats and pull on boots. They’ll go down to Dock Square, I hear them say. Maybe they’ll wander into Federal Jack’s for clam chowder and a pint, or they’ll decide on Allison’s, where they always argue over who gets the lobster roll and who should stick with the steaming bowl of chili. I’ve listened to every conversation, every plan, every laugh that trails out the door as the snowflakes cling to their scarves.

When they leave, the house falls into the kind of silence that only a Maine winter can hold. The sound of the stove murmurs like a steady heartbeat, the wind whistles softly against the glass, and the floorboards creak as if settling into a nap. I curl tighter, watching the visitors outside shuffle down the street. Visitors always come, even in the wicked cold. They marvel at the snow, snap photographs, stumble into the shops as if searching for a piece of Maine to carry home. I keep my distance. I never liked the visitors much. Don’t change a thing, that’s my philosophy. The world outside is noisy enough; here inside, it is mine.

When the humans return from lunch, brushing the snow from their boots, they light another fire and pour themselves tea. I blink slowly from my perch, watching the steam curl into the air. Outside, the snow has thickened, and the world is muffled and still. The visitors wander past again, hats pulled low, their footsteps hushed by the snow. I flick my ear, unimpressed. The house is warm, the window is cold, and the day drifts by in the quiet rhythm of winter.

I think sometimes about where I’ve been, though really, my world has always been here. Born in the wicked cold of a Maine winter, I’ve grown into it, carried by the same rhythm as the tides, the storms, the hush of snowfall. Where am I going? Nowhere, I suppose, except deeper into the winter, deeper into this moment. There is a peace in long winter days that humans sometimes miss in their rushing about. The silence holds everything you need to know if you’re willing to sit still long enough.

So I stay by the window, watching the gray sky deepen toward evening, the snow falling steadily, the lights in Dock Square flickering on one by one. Inside, the house is too hot, too close, but I have my pillow and my chill. This is my Maine: snow, silence, and the steady knowledge that nothing needs to change. Don’t rock the boat. Just let it be. For those who come to visit, they’ll take a piece of it home. For me, I already live in the story. This is Kennebunk in the winter, and for a Maine Coon like me, this is truly the way life should be.

Explore art from this Collection

This story is part of our Wicked cold Collection, a series of large postage stamp wall art celebrating Maine. Each artwork captures the colors, textures, and spirit of Maine through a lens of travel and memory. Discover related pieces like Wicked cold No.1 and Wicked cold No.2, or explore all works in the Wicked cold Collection.

Each piece is designed and printed in large-format detail; a postage stamp for your walls. View all collections or learn more about Ana.