The temperate dropped.
40 degrees from yesterday’s high to today’s expected high, from the low 80s to the low 40s 40 degrees in one day. Weather in the Midwest. And suddenly it’s a new ball game. The corona monster isn’t the most frightening thing in town. The Hawk is coming, freezing gale force winds screeching through the barren streets looking for clothes to cut through and flesh to sear, sting, and numb.
The Hawk. Slapping the foolhardy back indoors to get a thicker coat and a winter scarf. Making a trip to the mailbox as harrowing as a visit to the dentist. Howling through the streets like a banshee looking for wills to snap and heads to bow, looking to steal all the joy you ever had, EVER, and make you say to the Lord, “Just take me now!”.
Treacherous patches of slick ice that the maintenance crew is too lazy to scrape off the sidewalk have gotten me every year, slammed me on my butt in the most embarrassing poses like a persistent bully. I haven’t made it through a year unbruised no matter how carefully I pick my way among the tufts and drifts of snow, no matter how long I trudger through the frozen grass beside the sidewalk instead.
Winter on one hand, the COVID monster on the other. Maybe I’ll get lucky. Maybe I’ll getthe flu, some strand that’s sever but not uncomfortable, and have to stay home for a couple weeks in the thick of winter, in the worst 14 days stretch. Inside. Heat on full blast. Apartment heated to at least 80 degrees. After I’ve been to the store and loaded up on cookies and chips and cold medicine and caramels.
When you would rather have the flu than go outside…that’s how winter makes me feel.