winter

The other day, during the aftermath of yet another snowstorm, I had an odd revelation; I like winter. Not every aspect of winter, mind you. I detest the fact that night descends in the blink of an eye and seems to linger forever. I hate the sheet of ice that forms on the sidewalk from the drip in the rain gutter, a taunting reminder of the preparatory cleaning of the gutter I should have done earlier in the fall. I hate emerging from a shower or bath to be instantly chilled by the bite in the air that modern furnaces are unable to eradicate completely in the cold-tiled surfaces of the bathroom. I hate negotiating snow-laden freeways, fearing the onset of uncontrollable skidding or worst yet, somebody else launching towards you in an uncontrollable skid.

BUT, as I was out shoveling the snow from the driveway, I noticed that everything looked brighter, clearer. The reflection of the light off the snow brought definition to everything and made everything seem more real. I remember this is how childhood felt for me. Everything seemed new and fresh and I had a more vivid memory of things then. After I had finished shoveling, as I assessed my work, I felt exhilarated in that moment, drawing in the cold bracing air with each intake of breath and watching with delight, the vapor of my exhalation.