In a month

When all the snow has melted, and the streets have dried and the air has warmed, I feel like the spring could arrive any day. I feel hopeful, even if the only birds I see are pigeons and the sky is gray. I convince myself that it could be here any day.

And then the air inevitably turns colder. The sky is darker than ever at midday. I opened my shutters on Monday and I saw the snow, even without my glasses. Snow doesn't fall on the eighth floor. It swirls and darts and soars. It all falls eventually, but not up here. It is spectacular to behold, even if it reminds me that spring could still be months away. Every time I see the snow again, after a brief reprieve from it, I feel depleted, hopeless, used. As though everyday without the snow had been sober, and now I'm off the bandwagon.

These are the only times that I become truly discouraged. These are my only moments of complete frustration. I lived in an idyllic paradise, everyone wants to tell me so, and here I am and its snowing. I want to shut myself in. I want to lay in my bed with the shutters closed and hibernate until the sun shines and I can wear sandals. Enough scarves and hats and gloves.

But I get up. I let in what little light there is, and I put on my boots. I leave the house. I tread lightly though the snow, and I remember that someday these stones wont be covered in slick ice. I won't watch my every step for fear of an icy slip in just one more month. I piles of snow on all the corners will melt. The trees will have leaves. There might even be birds. In one month I will not wear down. Just one more.