It’s too loud. The cacophony has risen to such a level that I struggle to hear. There’s just too much. Of everything. Snow falls, unwelcome on this last day of February, but with it comes a whisper. And a beckoning. I step outside with the Yorkie and, as white feathers fall around me, a blanket of
February, the shortest of all the months, seems long again. It’s dragging. I looked forward to a bit of hibernation when we returned from Mexico at the start of it, and winter finally decided to show up. I’m done with it now. I see images on social media from the Northwest Flower and Garden show
We’re home for a few weeks, and I intend to settle comfortably into a rut lined with words. Reading and writing, the necessary things that call for attention as winter gives one final roar before melting into spring. I pull out my manuscript and reorient myself in the work. I pull out the copyedited manuscript of
”Stinker! She’s not even going to turn around,” my daughter, Laurinda says. We’re standing on what must be the sidewalk in front of her new home—the one we’ve spent the weekend helping her settle in to—but is now buried under some of the largest snowbanks I’ve seen in recent memory. The morning air is cold;
Winter arrives and, with it, the shortest day of the year—starting tomorrow, it’s downhill toward gardening season. And still, no snow. Butter tarts, a sweet Canadian treat, are happening here today and probably not much else. Winter arrives, waiting continues. Words are few.