The Death of Winter

"I don't understand how anyone can love Winter?" These words echoed through my mind leaving small scars with every reverberation. My whole world seemed to contract. Everything abruptly went out of focus except for those words. 

It's not like I hadn't heard them before. I had. Many times in fact. 

The mail carrier trudging through unshoveled walks with holes in her tattered gloves had proclaimed her disdain for me twice before she'd completed one row of homes. Commuters waiting on the Clark Street platform who weren't lucky enough to be standing under the seasonal heaters muttered curses on me through wool scarves  wrapped around their chins as the wind funneled straight to their bones. Hundreds of people screamed these very words at me this morning as they attempted to dig their cars free of the packed snow tossed onto their tires by passing plows the night before.

I’ve heard the words so many times I thought I’d grown numb to them.

But I’d never heard them from her.

Ever since she was a little girl, when the days got long and the snow fell, something inside of her lit up. She would wake up and run to the window to see the white blanket, pristine and untouched, draped on the ground in the small shared courtyard of her Roscoe Village condo building. She’d squeal with delight and run to wake up her parents so she could be the first to make her mark in the soft snow. It felt to her as though hours went by while her mom made sure her snow pants and boots and coat were on snugly. Her heart felt like it would burst when she was called back for her hat and gloves. Then, finally, she was free to sprint out the back door and across the wooden deck, down the stairs, exploding into the thick whiteness until she fell face first giggling with delight.

Her delight was my delight. I reveled in her glee. My cold had no effect on her and my wind did not phase her in the slightest.

On Saturday mornings, she’d beg her dad to take her to the sledding hill. Watching her race down the hill with a burst of laughter warmed my heart. Yes, even Winter can have a warm heart. As she grew, her dad would bring skis to the sledding hill. I could see the nervousness in her face as her feet became locked into place on the long skis, but her resolve was stronger. With a gentle push, she began sliding down the small hill. Sometimes she’d fall, and sometimes it would hurt. But every time, her dad would lift her up, brush her off, and ask her if she wanted to keep going. She always did. He’d carry the skis back up the hill as she marched confidently behind him. Then they’d do it all over and over again.

When she got back home, she’d tear off her snow clothes and run to the kitchen where her mom had hot cocoa waiting, with marshmallows, of course. Always with marshmallows. Through the slightly fogged up windows, I could see as she ignored questions about the day, lost in a book. Summer is for lemonade and picnics. Me, though, I’m perfect for hot cocoa and long books. And even from a young age, she loved long books.

Summer.

Summer is my brother. Everyone loves him. I guess I understood the appeal - you don’t have to bundle up to go outside; you can go to the beach or the pool; you can stay up late because school is out and work is lazier. When the wind blows, it’s warm and refreshing. Like I said, Summer is lemonade and picnics.

My girl didn’t care for Summer, though. She’d say it often. Summer was too hot, and she really did not care for sweating that much. The beach was so sandy. How could anyone like the beach, she’d say. The ocean is salty and the sand gets everywhere. Lake Michigan wasn’t so bad because it isn’t salty, but the sand still gets everywhere. Summer was boring - there was no school and camps were no fun. Glorified babysitting. Her parents tried Lifeguard Camp once. The Chicago Park District puts it on, and your friends are doing it. It’ll be fun, they promised. But it wasn’t. It was hot and sandy. All summer long. When would Fall come? Our cousin would provide a buffer between his heat and my cold and would signal the beginning of school and the promise of Halloween and hot cocoa to come.

Finally, Fall would come and give way to my turn to shine. I’d cool the days quickly. Ice would start to form in the river and on the edges of the lake. The trees were completely bare as they napped to escape my frost. My girl would bundle up and explore the city, loving the cool air on her face. She’d even go get ice cream sometimes still because it didn’t melt as fast when I was around. She loved that.

They moved to Lincoln Square when she was eight, and the new house had a yard. Not a big yard, but it was big enough, so her dad decided to build her an ice rink. Every time I came around, he’d pull out pipes and plastic, and in the freezing cold he’d fight my wind and my snow and create an icy playground for our girl. She loved it. She was never a great skater, but she’d gather her friends to slide around and play games all January. They’d bring out brooms and balls and hockey pucks. They’d beg their dads to push them with all of their might so they’d go screaming across the ice. She’d build a snow slide to launch her onto the ice when her mom or dad couldn’t come out to play.

March 1st used to be the saddest day of the year. That was the day that the rink would officially come down. The ice had faltered as my cousin, Spring, intruded on our fun. It was time to clean up the yard. It was time to begin prepping the garden. It was time for me to leave.

Everyone grows up. My girl grew up. She went off to college. I watched her there as she started pulling her coat tight against herself as I arrived. She’d duck her head to dodge my wind as she trudged to her classes. She didn’t have time to make snow angels or to go ice skating or sledding.

Now she lives in the city again. She works in a building downtown. Her friends all love Summer. They go to the beach together, and they play volleyball. They have brunch on outdoor patios and talk about how nice the sun feels while they sip mimosas. Concerts in the park and street festivals filled the evenings. 

Today, though, I was very present. My snow fell and blew in the strong wind. The sky was grey and salt was scattered on the sidewalks and streets. My cold bit at her skin as it had many times before, and sure, she’d pull her scarf up higher and tighter, but she never complained. From the train station, if you listened, you could hear the laughter and music from the skating rink in the park. I was trying to bring it to her on the wind. I wanted her to come and play. Instead she wrapped herself tighter, hoping for the warmth of the train to come quickly. Then she said those words.

"I don't understand how anyone can love Winter?"

The wind stopped. The snow stopped. My heart stopped. I watched her face as it peeked out from beneath her scarf. I waited for any sign that she didn’t mean it. That she remembered how we used to be. That she remembered that she loved me - the way no one loved me.

The Brown Line pulled up, and she got on. “Finally,” she sighed as she sat down and loosened her coat.