In just a few weeks I will be able to loosely knot a scarf around my neck and dip my chin into the folds of the fabric. I’m ready for crisp fall evenings, the night air tainted with the smell of wood burning fireplaces. And I excitedly await that moment where, upon exhaling, my warm breath hovers like a fog before drifting away in the evening sky.
Then comes winter, a time of shorter days and longer nights. Snow crunches beneath your feet as you traverse pathways yet to be shoveled. Mugs of whipped hot chocolate are no longer an indulgence but an excusable method of warming your body from the inside out. And only a Grinch could grumble at the way ice wraps around branches and glistens in the morning sunlight.
It isn’t that I dislike spring and summer. I love seeing the bulbs push through the earth and blossom into a cluster of delicate petals pivoting with the arc of the sun. The sound of crickets lulls me to sleep like a soft symphony. Warm weather means sand sifting between your toes, cups of watermelon water ice at four o’clock in the afternoon, and driving with all of the windows down.
I enjoy running errands in flip-flops and wearing shirts that expose my freckled shoulders, but too much of a good thing and you stop appreciating what you have. I’m tired of the heat that renders my curling brush and hair blower useless. Splashing around in rainstorms while wearing thin-strapped sandals has lost its charm. Summer is nice but I am ready to slip my hands into a pair of knitted mittens.
And listen, come early March, when Leslie starts telling me about the blooms on her crape murtle, I’ll long for the months where skirts trump slacks. At a certain point, I’ll tire of scraping ice from my windshield. I’ll curse the salt residue clinging to my car and I’ll pray for the day that the scent of honeysuckles tickles my nose. But for now I look forward to curling up on my sofa while snowflakes fall from the sky. A cashmere throw will rest atop my feet and the smell of fresh baked pumpkin bread will fill my home.