Old Winter Heart
Lit Up — April’s Prompt: Transition
“How nice and wonderful it is outside,” sighed Adelaide. She removed her sweater and spread her arms wide, embracing the warm spring weather that had bled through the nights of rain and chilly wind gusts. She turned her face toward the sky, eyes closed, and spun in a circle slowly, soaking in the sun’s generous heat and light. She watched her shadow dance slowly on the street, elongated under her stance.
I stood a little ways off and watched her revelry, a light sweater still on my back. I refused to take it off and run into the sunny glare with my sister. Instead, I hoped that this was just another instance of the bipolar Virginia weather tricking millions into thinking that the winter was officially gone. The few days that temperatures rose above 60 degrees were immediately followed by jacket weather that persisted for weeks. Many complained, for it was the middle of April and people were ready to put on their shorts and T-shirts.
I, however, loved the cold. I loved the winter and the early-morning blankets of soft, untouched sheets of snow that it brought. As a kid I would rejoice when school was cancelled and go out to snowman building competitions in the park. Mugs of hot chocolate awaited my return. What absolute bliss it was to sit, drink and watch the wind toss the snow around in the air into the street for it to turn to slush and eventually melt, only for fresh ice crystals to fall from the sky once more.
And again.
And again.
I swiped away a trickle of sweat and step further back into the shade, drinking in the scarce coolness. The wind blows but the pull was weak, doing nothing to battle the heat. If I could move further up north to where the cold persisted into the summer months, I would. Just to escape the sun’s brutal stare, slowly melting me away.
I didn’t own a single shirt that wasn’t long-sleeved. I had taken a special liking to cardigans, hoodies and winter jackets. Collecting them was a cherished hobby, for I didn’t have very many friends besides myself. The soft, forgiving company of the fabric was a sweet reminder of the fun that came with the constant solitude.
In the cold, nature became so silent, with the uniform brilliance of snow on a clear day. For the better part of six months, it seemed like time stood still, nature having taken a new form. The trees remained bare and the bushes were mere humps of snow.
My thoughts as I had wandered aimlessly through the parks broke the delicate icicle that was the quiet.
Hello, my old friends. Are you still there underneath the ice? You have all been so still, barely living at all. It worries me. You don’t look the same without your leaves. I miss them.
I wish I could share winter with you all. It could be your home. Why can’t I have them all — the ice and the leaves and flowers?
But the safety and beauty of winter didn’t last forever no matter how much I willed it to. Gradually, time would pick up again, accelerating at an alarming rate; flurries occurred less often in sprinkles that didn’t stick. I noticed days were too warm for a winter jacket, but I carried on wearing them anyway.
The environment was in full bloom but I always preferred to stay where it had been — under the snow, with company, a blanket protecting us all from the world so we could be vulnerable and bare inside, free to wander.
Of course, I see the world more clearly through the broad, unfiltered lens of spring; the trees were full with flowers and leaves; but I liked being able to lose myself in the snow, to wrap myself in a coat and not have to go through days alone with only the sun as a nuisance.
I liked to be as small as an ice crystal; a unique speck blending among the others, becoming one with the snow. Now that it was over, I felt like an anvil rusting on a vacant field.
I flicked away several beads of moisture that had made their way down my face. Just the act of standing made me sweat profusely, for this was how tough the spring truly was. The pretty images of flowers and beach festivals were so cruelly misleading.
But I knew not to mope so heavily about such things. The snow had evaporated underneath my steps and so would time… and eventually, the good people and things that made the hours worth passing.
Under the tree I watched my sister, who was now strolling down the sidewalk and collecting dandelions along the way. Today would be her last day here. Tomorrow she was to move out to the ArtCenter College of Design in California.
Adelaide was thrilled when she was accepted; she was happy to finally make a decision outside her childhood city, to shake off the blanket of snow that had stuck to all of us. She would likely travel the world after that, to Siberia and extreme tropical temperatures, loving every second of it all. I would still be at home, waiting for the next winter to come.
Adelaide’s art, unlike the cold, would endure even as time carried on and blew everyone else away. Winters would not be the same without her; what made them more colorful — her hand lettered holiday cards, watercolor paintings and Christmas tree sketches — would become vacuums fueling the too comfortable silence.
Every spring would be a reminder of her absence, a whisper of the last day she stood in the middle of the street to greet the sun’s arrival with a grateful smile.
She blew out each of the dandelions she’d collected. The seeds dispersed toward the horizon, their landings unknown.
Each of them were people transitioning into the blistering heat without me.
