WESTWOOD – Frigid January air stings the nose with each breath. A pale, distant sun hangs low in the southeastern sky, its journey markedly diminished from summer’s high. And holiday revelry is just memories now. There is yet no tangible evidence that the solstice is nearly a month behind us. In this cold, I hear the still, and the silence. I love this kind of cold.
Or do I?
For so long, I wore impervious like a cloak of honor. Me, the one who would ski in any weather, Jack Frost be damned. The one who slept with the windows open in winter, much to the chagrin of my sister down the hall. When I found out the Gem liked the cold (almost) as much as me, it was like love at first frostbite. Patriots-Titans playoff game in January of 2004? Kickoff temperature of four degrees? We were there, and I can tell you the parking lot tailgate lasted even longer than the game.
But maybe that old cloak has become threadbare. Me, I thought you knew me, I have shunned a few ski days these last few years, no longer braving subzero mornings. There is not a snowball’s chance in hell I would leave windows open all night, between the heating bills and the likely family mutiny. Would I go to another playoff game with those conditions? Well…hey, the dynasty appears to be on the wane, so I might not have to decide right away on that one!
Either way, the emperor needs more cloaks.
Midwinter cold once conjured up the wonderment of childhood snow. Frolicking, sledding, throwing. Snow angels, snow forts. The warmth of coming inside to hot chocolate and the fire. As we hurtle through the middle of life, it changes a bit. Snow isn’t fun. We plow through daily tasks and responsibilities – too big to sled, preoccupied with other adventures anyway. We watch the kids play, recreate some of those experiences for them, and remember.
The passage of time weighs on me this morning. Observing nature’s annual hibernation, childhood memories compete with decades of adult memories – all of which begin a slow fade at the end of each today.
Joy and sorrow. A baby is born. A wedding, or maybe a funeral. Young adults spreading their wings, learning to fly. A high school friend, gone at 48. A very happy 20th wedding anniversary. Friends losing parents and parents losing friends. Joy and sorrow, one following the other, never predictable. Joy and sorrow, every little milepost seen through big prisms: my childhood, my mother’s 1993 death, my wedding, my kids’ births. Joy and sorrow. They do not stop. They do not stop. These thoughts fill my mind like a blizzard.
Friends complain about the cold, joke about retiring to Florida. Some are not joking – for it is no longer beyond the horizon of chronological contemplation.
Another day for all that. This morning is crystal clear, windless, bitter. The sun looks and feels like a small flashlight. I look at the calendar and the weather apps, trying to decide when I’ll drive north and hit the slopes again. And memories mix with my midwinter morning.
There is yet no tangible evidence that the solstice is nearly a month behind us. In this old, I hear the still, and the silence. I love this kind of cold.
Or do I?
Westwood Living? No…thank YOU for living in Westwood. See you next month, and I look forward to hearing from you any time at jayresha@comcast.net.
