Spring Snowfall

 Spring Snowfall

 

Who’s surprised? It happens every year. After April 1. Only a fool would be fooled.

One day it is sunny and sixty and the next . . . below freezing. The deck slippery. The brave daffodils bobbing above slush. The children’s picnic table brought out in a flurry of excitement for the changing season—now coated in white.

A cascade of emotions overwhelm me. The first: Nooooooooo! The second, a jaded sarcasm: Of course. The third, one of despair: When will this end?

In my right mind, I know it won’t last. It’ll melt by noon. By the end of the week we’ll be in the 50s. All of this is solace for the soul, but does nothing for my cold hands, the white wet clinging to my slippers, the never-ending sense of being so over this.

I haven’t run for about a week. Of course, nothing is stopping me. Except for the cold, the fact I might fall, The simple idea, I don’t want to,

Not until it warms up. Not until spring actually arrives. Not until the sun comes out.

Until then, I’m staying inside, sipping hot tea, with a blanket covering my knees, and a book open on my lap.