A Version of Winter
I feel like I've somehow slipped into the wrong season. Today, the sun is shining, the sky is blue, the still-red leaves are sparkling on the tree-lined streets of our neighborhood--it's a perfect October day, warm enough for just a sweater if I decide to head out for a walk. The Northeast, meanwhile, has been pounded with snow, truly December-like; hats and gloves and scarves and boots are--I imagine--piled beside front doors, school delays are being hoped for, and lighted Christmas trees are framed in frosty windows.
Ah, the Northeast. I miss the winter. I miss walking through New York on cold December days, wearing my very silly fur-lined, ear-flapped hat, tucking my hair around my neck, beneath my scarf, for extra warmth. I miss the overabundance of radiator heat in my old Brooklyn apartment, which turned the rooms into cozy havens, warm protection from the icy wind outside. I miss seeing people toting armsful of shopping bags on the subway; the Christmas tree at Rockefeller Center; the tourists crowded around the lighted windows on Fifth Avenue; the red-and-white awnings of the Union Square Christmas Market; the handsome Christmas tree sellers gathered mid-block or in corner lots, warming their hands around paper coffee cups. I even miss--to the extent that such a thing can be missed--the chaotic journey to JFK on the Long Island Rail Road, too-warm in a coat and overburned with heavy bags, trekking home.
Yet here I've said "Merry Christmas" to a Salvation Army Santa while wearing sunglasses and a short-sleeved shirt; houses have Christmas lights hanging from palm trees; and I don't see anyone walking anywhere, let alone with shopping bags or wintry fashions. This is not the same. It couldn't possibly be; I didn't expect it to be. But it is not the same.
We're making the best: tomorrow we're going to San Francisco overnight, to take in some city Christmas things--crowds and shop windows and trees, a good meal in a nice restaurant, perhaps even a bagel for breakfast. And we'll be headed Eastward in just two weeks.
The sun filling these rooms is, truly, wonderful. It's just the wrong time for it, that's all.
Ah, the Northeast. I miss the winter. I miss walking through New York on cold December days, wearing my very silly fur-lined, ear-flapped hat, tucking my hair around my neck, beneath my scarf, for extra warmth. I miss the overabundance of radiator heat in my old Brooklyn apartment, which turned the rooms into cozy havens, warm protection from the icy wind outside. I miss seeing people toting armsful of shopping bags on the subway; the Christmas tree at Rockefeller Center; the tourists crowded around the lighted windows on Fifth Avenue; the red-and-white awnings of the Union Square Christmas Market; the handsome Christmas tree sellers gathered mid-block or in corner lots, warming their hands around paper coffee cups. I even miss--to the extent that such a thing can be missed--the chaotic journey to JFK on the Long Island Rail Road, too-warm in a coat and overburned with heavy bags, trekking home.
Yet here I've said "Merry Christmas" to a Salvation Army Santa while wearing sunglasses and a short-sleeved shirt; houses have Christmas lights hanging from palm trees; and I don't see anyone walking anywhere, let alone with shopping bags or wintry fashions. This is not the same. It couldn't possibly be; I didn't expect it to be. But it is not the same.
We're making the best: tomorrow we're going to San Francisco overnight, to take in some city Christmas things--crowds and shop windows and trees, a good meal in a nice restaurant, perhaps even a bagel for breakfast. And we'll be headed Eastward in just two weeks.
The sun filling these rooms is, truly, wonderful. It's just the wrong time for it, that's all.
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