I always felt like summer was my month, my kind of season. But I find myself missing the cold like a dear friend. The cold I wore like a mask to hide me as I would walk to class bundled into a million fuzzy warm things. I could peel off the layers inside cozy cafes, made all the warmer by gusty froths of snow outside. Chai never tastes better than those moments after traversing the cold-hot barrier of a mid-winter's cafe.
I miss my scarves, and my reasons - or excuses - to wear them. I touched the corner of one yesterday...pashmina with gold threaded designs, perceptible only if you tilt the fabric. But it's much too warm, I have to remind myself. Too hot, too sticky, too much. Just too much.
Missing someone is not about missing a physical body, but an essence. The essence of cold brings delight to the warmth, and vice-versa. It brings angel-feather snowflakes, wispy and delicate as cotton buds. I would hardly complain if the sky yawned widely, tiring of this heat, and graced us with a bounty of snowflakes. I want to feel my boots crunching snow, my sweater freshly laundered in my insular armor of jacket, gloves, jeans, and scarf.
People vacation for hot weather. I hear Australia has winter right now, as does Chile. I would vacation for winter. Winter is seemingly universally unpopular. People would rather have summer, that time of iced drinks, no school, shorts, and swimsuits. But summer brings the boredom of the summer job, the school-less hours of tedious Facebook time. Summer has few holidays - winter brings the season of joy and cheer, hot chocolate and egg nogg, family and friends. Winter glows as golden for me as a hot summer sun.
Here I am, on a perfect summer's day.
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