Still night, heavy air. Windows open, shutters start to vibrate. A lightning storm hurtles in with rapid-fire bursts of daylight, bringing fat raindrops that smack the window frame, just missing their target.
Wide-eyed, I sit on the edge of the bed, stunned by the cacophony of light. Eyes dart east-west, chasing electric cat-tails.
Gargantuan bursts of lightning, shaped like the birch trees in the front yard of my childhood home. Jagged, spindly, white-on-black. I huddled under my mom’s handmade quilt while outside, the thunder cracked ferociously. One intense white blanket of light seared the sky, and made you afraid that it would rip itself open. The dread of the rumbling, hellish roar that was to follow. Like a cat’s hiss, a sudden electric scream that shook my bed and rattled my core.
But now, the volume’s been turned down. Frenzied white-gray bursts, halos of diffused light dance for me and only me.
This is the deepest part of night, where there is no time. It is eternal, pure and perfect.
Like the timid animal I am, I lay back in bed next to F, stunned into stillness. Our room is a frozen vacuum, illuminated by relentless, pulsing full light. This rhythm lulls me to sleep.
Lying snuggled in the comforters, with double the space and pillows because F’s gone off to work. Bye sweetie, I’ll be having breakfast in bed… Sucka…
Going for a walk as the day starts warming up, basking in the best golden sunlight of the day.
Making thoughtful, well-prepared meals.
Taking that precious 3pm nap.
Tasting a fine Irish whiskey at noon if I feel like it.
Unburdened by the clock.
Deep breaths, birdsong.
Love, love, love.
I wake up to the sound of the wind screaming outside. I’m breathing heavily from the nightmare I’ve just been freed from. The window shade is rattling, and my windows are creaking.
The wind moans over the sound of the grains in my bread crackling in the toaster. It haunts me as I get dressed and zip up my boots. As strong as the wind is now, it’s nothing compared to what I’ll meet on the walk to the station.
I carefully tie my hair and scarf to keep them under control, and my resolve is firm when I turn the key to lock my door. No turning back now.
I ascend the hill near my sheep buddies, and their matted wool and stoic gazes are unmoving in this tempest. Spindly branches whip above my head, and I skirt quickly away from the groaning trees.
My usually peaceful country path is now unfamiliar in its aggression. The wind is so powerful, I can’t walk straight, and I fear it’ll rip my contact lenses straight out of my eyes. Wincing into each step, I hear nothing but howling in my ears.
Nothing but howling?
I can fix that.
I start singing. Each gust threatens to cut off my breath, but I can’t miss this perfect opportunity to belt out some great disco hits. This is a walk from hell, but I can either bitch and moan into the breeze, or smile and sing into it. The latter is way more fun.
I imagine a winegrower sipping his morning coffee, further down in the valley, catching the tune as it’s carried over on a strong gust. He taps his foot and hums along, in harmony with my vocals. The wind screams for an encore. I take a bow, board my train, and leave it wanting more.
Early March. Snowdrops and crocuses are blooming, as are the daffodils.
Snowdrops, beautiful delicate white flowers, coyly looking down at their feet. I remember wrapping their trimmed stems in wet paper towel, then plastic wrap. The downturned eyebrows and “aw” of my favorite teacher when I proudly presented them to her.
Crocuses, narrow vase-shaped purple and yellow blooms. They tell me Spring is almost here.
Daffodils, already in bloom. Back home, they arrive in April; my favorites have white petals and yellow trumpets. The hills of our park are covered in an army of daffodils, thousands standing proud.
This beautiful trio of color is what brushes away the lethargy of winter. Endless gray skies, bitter wind and rain, minimal daylight truncated by late sunrises and early sunsets. The gray is cast over everything, making food taste as bland as the tree branches that loom overhead, naked and spindly.
Meanwhile, the flesh on my hips grows thicker with raclette, inactivity and torpor. My head is stuffed with cotton, and I feel myself disappearing, daily, soundlessly into the fog-laden hills of my morning walk.
My gray existence receives a jolt every year, upon sight of these flowers.
I wipe the sleep from my eyes, and go outside to pick one. The first sight of vibrant color in months turns my world back into technicolor.
It’s nearly time to come out of hibernation.