I woke up this morning to find a dumpload of snow on the ground and more coming down. Who says April is the cruelest month? I’m thinking March—around here anyway.
Just a few days ago, I walked the perimeter of my yard, planning borders and beds and vegetable gardens, watching the pattern of sunlight and shadow shift across the winter-beaten lawn, breathing in the voluptuous fragrance of thawed earth. Spring was coming. I mean, it’s always come before, right?
I dragged on my parka, and my boots, and slid my laptop into my backpack to protect it from the elements, grumbling the whole time. I am tired of the winter rituals—the ordeal of going outdoors. I want to pass easily from interior to exterior spaces without putting on my shoes, without layering on clothes, without scrunching up my body to reduce wind resistance. I want to come inside without peeling.
I envisioned putting an ad on Craigslist. “End of Season Sale! A foot of freshly-fallen snow, primo packing quality. Easily attaches to shrubs and trees. You shovel or will deliver to warm and sunny climates.”
And yet. The backyard was transformed, as only a snowstorm can do, each sharp edge blunted by moguls of snow, all blue shadow and white crystalline surfaces, punctuated by shots of evergreen and the brilliant red of cardinals bickering over the feeder.
I walked downtown, navigating the obstacle course of snowplow leavings and unshoveled walks. Snow found its way into the tunnel of my hood, collected on my eyelashes and shoulders.
The river flowed like a dark ribbon, flecked with snow and foam, between glaceed trees. The sounds of civilization were muted, the reflective surfaces shrouded in snow, every ugly thing covered over, temporarily, at least.
It’s like that old boyfriend that’s caused you endless hassle, and you’re just tired of dealing with him. And, yet, when you see him, he looks so fine.
All right, I thought. I may be a fool, but I’m giving winter one more chance…