This is a strange limbo season – one minute freezing and wet, overcoats and gloves, the next, hot and bright, light sweaters if that. Yesterday, ghastly. Today, heavenly. And I, the lightoholic, rush to stick my face in the last rays from that hot yellow thing in the sky. Because soon, those rays will be pale and distant, barely felt on the hungry skin.
Thus, the Canadian preparing for winter: bit by bit, putting away the cotton and linen clothes and the sandals, getting out the woollens and the boots, the hats and gloves, overcoats, shawls. Bit by bit, shutting down the garden, picking the last green tomatoes, bringing in the outdoor plants to winter over, sealing the windows. Sealing all the windows – oh, that hurts.
Because my bed is next to a window. It’s a great blessing – I can push the curtain open when I wake, and look out to see the ivy and the giant maple tree at the end, in my neighbour’s garden. The open window brings me the smells of the day, and of the night. But soon it’ll be closed. Soon I’ll open the curtains and see the maple’s naked limbs. And soon, I’ll open the curtains and see those white flakes tumbling down.
And then we’re in for it, my friends. Then we shut down.
