Yesterday we caught the edge of the blizzard as it made its way up the east coast. It wasn’t really much in the way of snow, but it was enough to slow most everyone down a bit–schools were closed and we’d canceled a day trip to Boston, so there were no appointments or therapy sessions to work around. Esmé and I stayed in all day.
So the first I stepped foot outside was around 9pm, to shovel the driveway. I was excited to get out for a peaceful moment by myself…to get a bit winded out in the cold and dark evening. It was a pretty biting cold, I must say, nothing like my days in Montréal, but still, cold. The kind of cold that isn’t so intolerable that you are certain it will end, nor the type that has little hints that it plans to let up.
This kind of cold is the sort that makes you think it will be like this forever.
While I was out there I kept looking around, trying to remember that this neighborhood will be green again in the not-so-distant future. It seemed impossible to imagine, really. I kept wishing I was the kind of person who can keep living plants indoors–as a reminder that life is some kind of cycle, that even as we speak, below the snow in my yard, things are readying themselves for spring. Mostly I just magically kill indoor plants, no matter what I do, which is really upsetting in the middle of winter. (Seriously, I cannot keep a cactus alive, it’s embarrassing.)
But I know that the snow will melt. The ground will soften. The leaves will bud. It will get warm. And then warmer.
It has to, right?