In
the Midwest, there is no spring. There is something called a thaw, in either May
or June, in which mud coats the wind, and cigarette butts sprout like crocus
from black-feathered mounds of melting snow piles. A false thaw consisting of a
balmy thirty-five degrees had just lulled us all into a moony dream before
plunging back below zero, freezing moats of briny slush on sidewalks into an
armor of ice. This lay beneath a ponderous load of snow and cold like a dragon
coiled relentlessly around our feet – a cold so deep even our entrails grew
crystals.
***
In early February, after the Super
Bowl, cold paralyzed my pelvic energy along with my nasal passages. The
Wisconsin winter unsexed us all. We encased ourselves in sarcophagi of cotton hoods,
wool flaps and flannel wraps that added more bulk than the cheese curds and poutine and paczkis and hot chocolate with marshmallows by which we devoured
and excreted the defeat of knowing we couldn’t get out. I longed to go to bed
all day, and yet dreaded going to sleep knowing it would bring the next day on
faster. During the week I ducked away from work under the bruised sky and fell
asleep in the womb of my recliner before eight, and on the weekends I spent all
day working on puzzles wherever I knew my friends and lovers wouldn’t set a
cold, dry foot.
