The weather warms.
It’s one of the pleasures of living squarely within a four-season climate, you know. Anticipation, that is. Here it is February – almost March, which, really, is darn-near April.
Spring: The long-awaited and pink-hued cheek in the face of the seasons.
Summer is the dimple in that face. But we’ll get to that another time.
Winter, however mighty and frost-fisted, has become weary in its attempts to kill us.
Not that there isn’t still some in the strength in the Ol’ Man’s grip and that we don’t behave accordingly. The alpaca shawl is still at the foot of the couch. The quilt covering my bed – the one seemingly made of cotton batting and cement – remains. The microwavable mittens I wear on my hands on the really cold days, huddled on the couch covered in flannel and cats, still become “fittens” when I put them on my feet.
Frostbite, chilblains, and nasal ice balls all remain a possibility.
As Mary says, the whole thing’ll give ya the scourge.
The days come and go, of course; and in time, we will forget the laissez-faire cruelties of winter and the season itself will assume, like the seasons before it, its secondary job of place-marker, will become, again, the measure by which we determine where we were and when. “Hmm. When was the last time I had a really good margarita? I remember I was wearing a cashmere sweater, and that I sat on Diana’s ice-scraper when I flung myself into her front seat, so I’m thinking it was late winter…”
Without the seasons, most of the Midwest wouldn’t be able to recall the last time they had a really good margarita.
Or that ice-scrapers are made of truly resilient stuff.
The temperature is predicted to rise to 36 degrees today.
That’s almost 40.
Next thing you know, we’ll be venturing outdoors without boots, baring our naked heads to the sky, considering the brutal measure of the swimsuit and the effect of winter comfort foods.
Spring is coming.
Anything could happen.