The Cold

The cold creeps into my bones like a slow water leak. I feel it in my toes and on the back of my neck. It seeps insidiously under my fingernails. We're halfway through March and there's no way it should be this bitter but even the sun's glare has an icy undercoat. I find the warmest room in the house and pull on my thermals and heavy duty socks, wind my trusty muffler around my neck and shoulders and slip into my leather jacket. I'm about to head out the door when I remember my finger-less wool gloves, a gift from a much loved and understanding cousin, one I hadn't anticipated needing until next year. I also remember that the day before when I walked into the office, it was 57 degrees inside. No time like the present, I think, and backtrack to snatch them out of the corner cupboard. It's time to confront this arctic wasteland, this adversary, this merciless and most feared enemy, The Cold. It has to be done quickly before I lose my nerve.

By mid afternoon it's warmed up enough to be civilized but the next morning, the grass is crunchy with frost and so am I. All my life, The Cold has made me impatient, ill-tempered, unhappy and bitter with resentment at everything I can't control. But for the eight small lives that depend on me, I would jack the heat to 80, light the fireplace and the space heaters and stay under the covers until Memorial Day. I'm quite sure that the traditional view of hell is, temperature-wise at least, backwards. If it exists, it's bound to be stone cold, damp-to-the-bones cold, forever cold.

The third and fourth mornings are carbon copies of the first and second with deceptively bright sunshine wearing a knit cap and a coat of icy-sleeved cold.  According to the forecast, warmer weather arrives tomorrow, as much as 30 degrees warmer by the day after and there's no choice but to bundle up and wait out one more day.

A scant three days later, I throw open every window in this small, old house and invite the sunshine and sweet breezes inside.  Birds sing in the azaleas again and the crepe myrtle is starting to bloom.  Instead of leaves needing to be raked, the grass needs cutting.

Hope, shy but strong, beats back The Cold and blossoms alongside every stubborn dandelion.