But then came . February was January’s quieter, more sinister cousin. The novelty of snow had worn off. Now, the piles at the end of driveways were dirty, like old slushies melted and refrozen a dozen times. She learned a new word: hunker . Everyone was just hunkering down, waiting.
was a liar. One day, the sun would appear, the icicles would drip, and she’d think, Ah, spring . She’d wear a light jacket. The next day, a polar wind would scream down from Canada, dumping six more inches of snow. March, she decided, had a personality disorder. seasons in usa months
She grabbed her coat. She didn’t run from it. But then came
arrived like a slammed door. She stepped off the plane in Chicago, and the air bit her cheeks so hard they felt like two frozen apples. The world was a monochrome of grey sky and white ground. Back home, January meant sweat and mangoes. Here, it meant scraping ice off a car she didn’t own yet and watching people run from heated building to heated building like fleeing refugees. She hated January. Now, the piles at the end of driveways
And finally, . She braced for the cold, but this cold was different. This cold came with string lights wrapped around porch pillars, with the smell of pine trees sold in gas station parking lots, with the sound of a Salvation Army bell on the corner. On Christmas Eve, it snowed again. But this time, she stood at the window and watched the fat, fluffy flakes drift down, quiet as a prayer.
was the reward for surviving. The air turned soft. The world smelled like cut grass and soil. She bought a bicycle and rode it past neighbors who were suddenly emerging from their homes like bears from a den, smiling, grilling hamburgers. May was a sweet, hopeful whisper after a long scream.
But then, on the last day of , she smelled it. A crispness. A hint of smoke from a distant chimney. The air changed from soft to sharp. The green leaves began to show their true colors—yellow, then orange, then a red so fierce it looked like the tree was on fire.