Cold, 20’s, light breeze, waxing gibbous 89%, sunrise 7:27, sunset 4:58
It’s finally cold enough to really feel like winter. This old house is chilly in the corners and the sky has settled into the steely white/gray it likes to wear in this kind of weather. Rev has a friend over and I love to hear the sounds of their playing while I make lunch in the kitchen. They’re busily packing for a journey to Antarctica, which appears to involve piling up a bunch of random items and then “reading” chapter books to each other for the duration of a long, pretend train ride.
Which actually reminds me of an insanely long train trip I took from Philadelphia to Vermont once, on the wobbliest train over the crookedest tracks during the coldest part of the winter. I drank ginger ales in the dining car and tried not to succumb to motion sickness, and watched the snow getting deeper outside the window as the miles rolled by. It was dark by the time we reached Burlington. There was no platform at that station and we all marched off the train straight into a snowbank. It felt like stepping into the north pole or like I had been transported into some strange lonesome frozen northland that I was wholly unprepared for. Then I took a winding taxi ride to my accommodations on the banks of the frozen Lake Champlain. It was too dark to see anything so late in the evening and the space it took up felt more like a gaping abyss in the earth than a large body of water, except you could hear the ice whispering down below, telling its secrets in some strange and unfamiliar language.
But maybe every winter feels like that a bit. Like one day the world is one way and the next day it’s another and you’re wholly unprepared for the change even if you know it’s coming but you’re kind of ready for it too.