Frozen

I think we can all agree. This has been a brutal winter. The cold. The snow. Icicles drip off my roof in motionless stalactites, as thick as my leg, the gaping mouths of driveways swallow cars whole, disappearing between the immense snow drifts. My feet must be at constant attention against the icy floors of everywhere I go, and my children must stay inside for fear of getting frostbite on little noses and cheeks, on the exposed slices of wrist between mittens and sleeves.

And yet. It is so beautiful.

The snow in the sun is blinding; bright white against the palest of sky. Thick snowflakes sparkle like bits of mica, enchanting bare branches and ordinary ground into pristine loveliness. As I go quickly to the mail box, the winter silence acts as salve to my electronic and fast paced environment.

Inside, the fire burns warm as we read, or write, or daydream wrapped in an afghan my grandmother crocheted years ago. I drink heady glasses of red wine while I cook roasts, and potatoes, and vegetable soups. I drape myself in worn bathrobes, my husband’s flannel shirts, as I shuffle around in slippers that were a Christmas gift, but are too big.

Now that Spring is near, the cooped up days become cozy, the monotonous landscape becomes soothing, and this brutal winter becomes an epic season to remember. An artic transformation.