Never one to wish for frozen temperatures, or a cold and cruel Winter, I do fear a thaw coming at this time of the year. A thaw is a dangerous thing. A thaw messes with the mind. I still recall a thaw that came in January of 1995. Walking in the melting snow, lost amid the fog and the feelings, I remember the yearning of my heart, the misdirected obsessions, the unrequited love – or the closest I could come to love at the time – and, swirling as it did in the mild water vapor, the fog of the snow banks matched the fog of the mind.
In my ‘Whimsy’ Project of the time, I sought out creative expression, hoping for some ease or relief, but finding only a mash and jumble of words and products ~ losing my way amid the fluff, getting carried away by the airy confections, anything to distract from the truth. The fog has that effect on the heart and the head. I wished for someone to appear on one of those nights, and maybe someone did. I knew who he was, but I didn’t know where he had come from, or if I had conjured him ~ whether he was real, whether his kiss had warmed or cooled my lips, or if the night had been so wet I had only to open my mouth and the whole universe left it moist from a thousand kisses. The coldest kindness can feel like the warmest embrace when the rest of the world is so frigid. Therein lies the risk of a thaw. Like the otherwise-perennial plants lost to the heaving that comes from such weather extremes, the heart can be irreparably broken when given sudden careless warmth in the midst of a barren tundra. The flowers that bloom there do not last very long, and are so small they are seldom even seen.
So save the brief reprieve and give me the real Winter. Batter me with the wilds of wind, the sharp sting of snow – pelt me with your ice and sleet and frozen shards on tips of lashing limbs – just do not tease with the promise implicit in a thaw. That promise is too far off. We’ve had our Fall. Let us have our Winter. There is no other way to get to Spring.
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