Today, everything was (sort of) white outside! It reminded me of a thing I wrote for class last year, which was fun to read again:) It’s kinda poetical, sorta.
3 March 2014
“How’s the Weather?” “Mean.”
In my dad’s words, “March is a mean old cuss.” Like the idiomatic lion, March rages in every year to throttle my father’s February golds. My father watches the bright, sunshine flowers emerge in the waning days of spring-hopeful February, only to see the fool-hardy early bloomers prostrate on the hard ground. In the face of apoplectic March, we confident, self-sufficient humans quaver, chased back into bulky coats and tired boots. Going outside is like leaving the freezer door open too long: I almost expect a warning light to chime, insisting that I am letting all the cold air escape. The thin, sharp air does not escape so much as seek heat, finding refuge in my open jacket, the tops of my boots, and my quivering, tender nostrils. Perhaps March wind mimics misery, loving company and seeking to change all warmth to its own persuasion.
Last night, my town was presented with a saucy, taunting gift by the third month: a torrential, icy downpour which in turn left expansive, clear-cold lakes covering the sidewalks. Overnight, the lakes turned to cloudy-white ice, the exact color of a paint-pan washed out carelessly. Furry snow grew in the cracks of cement, gathering especially on the stairs. The cracks were already green with sickly rye grass and moss; now, they resembled a science experiment gone wrong, or an old, humid bathroom in disrepair.
The glaringly-bright overcast sky promised snow, but never delivered. As I walked out of campus for my next class, two or three specks of snow tingled and melted on my exposed cheeks and nose, but they were tragically devoid of companions. Having class at my professor’s house, with tea and coffee and cake, I left the distilled, knife-like wind outdoors and almost forgot about it. I spent a full, happy hour fellowshipping with new friends over words and essays before remembering that I would have to leave early to get to my next class on time. During the final ten minutes, I alternated reluctant glances at my phone and the frozen-glass window. At exactly 3:15, the official end of the class and beginning of my next one, I rose and shrugged on my jacket.
Walking quickly on short legs does not get one as far or as fast as one might like to go. So although I hurried, I knew I would be late to piano seminar, especially since I hadn’t left the previous class early as planned on my official class schedule. The wind was just as bitter coming back to campus as it was leaving, and the sidewalks still looked for all the world like dry ice, waiting to freeze-dry any moisture that might dare to fall. Even my hair, blown wild by the frosty wind, was stimulated to alertness, if that’s possible. My scalp itself felt on edge, as if goose pimples were making my skin pores act like goldfish, opening and closing their mouths in a sort of excitement.
I was excited, because on the way back I had begun thinking of my unconscious behavior in leaving my English class late over getting to my piano class early. I thought it must show something about what motivates me, and what I give priority to. Now that might be English, or it might be Texas sheet cake. You have my permission to choose.