Winter has overstayed its welcome. So sayeth me. The morning frosts and eternal piling of snow, condensed by warmth, sublimated away, refrozen, re-piled; there is no more appetite for it.
In Ottawa we are entering a late-winter phase of hopefulness, but it’s coming too early. One can tell when it’s a false spring. It gives just enough to remind one of last spring, or that one when you were 14 that came on an early, balmy wind and let you and your skateboard out in just a t-shirt for a couple hours. But soon enough, the exposed asphalt is buried again and one is made to wait weeks or months for a reprieve from the cold.
Yes, the worst of it is over - the days are getting longer again - but it’s not enough. My mood still sets at 5. Maybe 5:30 now. I still live in the dark, diffuse light of winter. It’s said that Toronto has had 30 hours of sunlight this winter - true, direct sunlight. Ottawa has had less. Maybe. Who keeps track of things like this? I assume it’s all just a hunch. Still, it is not nearly enough.
Is that what it means to be an adult? To live with ugly ambiguities?
from Kitchen, by Banana Yoshimoto
The last few days have opened up the sidewalks and roads to their cold, dry bones. Snow still covers the rest of the ground, but hard, smooth surfaces are salty and clear. It could almost bring a tear to one’s eye. In fact, it might. The sunlight’s glare off the crystalline glaze at the corners of road and sidewalk reflect the prodigal sun into one’s eyes, and it’s lovely. But it’s just a flash, a quick reprieve before true winter returns. An unlovely and frozen promise. Until then, there is time to be out and unmiserable. I took the morning to roll (poly)urethane and wood, to wake up the neighbors, and to lose some of the skin on my knees. It’s been months since I’ve made crushing impact with concrete or cement, and the meeting I had this morning is a rough reminder of summer and what I’ve been missing. It’s unfair to think that some people get to pound their bodies as such, all year long.
