perpetual winter

I may have said I'm cold about eight thousand times already this winter.  I mean, we live in Ohio, and during the months that end in -er and -ary, it tends to be cold here.

There are things I like about winter, the way the whole world seems quieter when it snows, for example.  The boys and I enjoy examining icicles that hang from rooflines and watching the wind rearranges snow drifts.  And seriously, they are practically irresistible in toboggan caps.

It's just that lately it seems like millions and millions of  tiny, soft flakes have been falling ever so gently to the ground and CRUSHING all of my hopes for spring.

In the evening, Andy sits with an ice pack between his shoulders because being cold burns calories.  He reminds me of that almost every time I say I'm cold, which makes me feel like another bowl of ice cream might almost be justifiable.

We've all been on spring's case about showing up already.  And I'm afraid that soon enough raindrops will fall (and fall and fall) on places snowflakes have once been.  I may be even less of a fan of that "season," the way the ground becomes goulash, the thick, thawing mess.

There's this thing Tollie says when we step inside the back door, about how lucky we are to have a warm house to live in.  And I know he's right, we are ever so lucky to have a house full of candles and dirt and music.  I know, also, that mine is a very transitory distress, the kind born when my every wish for a life filled with convenience is not granted, the kind banished when my attention is distracted.  For that, there are daffodils on the way.  And until then, there is always more ice cream.