Memories: Wishing For Spring
The sky could not be any grayer. My
mood could not be any darker. My hopes and dreams could not be any more
ethereal. The first winter wind has yet to cross the border fence, and
autumn has not yet died, let alone been buried, yet I feel as if it has
been winter forever and spring and summer never were.
The snowflakes are falling and autumn is frozen and old. It's another
morose late-autumn morning. A not-so-subtle downhill run into the
hungry, spiritless, mouth of winter
It's hard to grasp the notion that winter has not yet sent its icy
tendrils to torture my soul and darken my dreadful mood even more.
Looking back, it seems as though autumn, with its magnificently
brilliant colors of death never arrived - and winter has colored my
Yet, winter has not arrived. Indeed, winter patiently awaits autumn's
demise with a horrid boreal grin. It crouches just beyond the white
horizon waiting in anticipation; its mouth agape and its icy paws ready
to pounce on any who dare venture forth.
Winter's howling winds and brutal cold will soon turn the already white
and bitter landscape into a gray-white, numbing mess. Rivers and lakes,
which have thus far resisted the cold so valiantly, will succumb to
winter's ungodly juggernaut and will freeze from shore to shore,
creating cracking bridges of pellucid blue and green ice. Who could
stand strong enough against the howling wind long enough to cross them?
As the years pass, I find myself hating winter more and more. The
pristine white landscape after a freshly fallen snow, used to paint a
lovely picture of memory and nostalgia - now it is only a portent of
frozen fingers, icy toes, and long, dark months of suffered yearning.
Eventually, spring will break the bonds of winter and miraculously life
will spout anew from the frozen soil. The first signs of life and light
after living long in the dark deathscape of winter will bring hope to my
cold, weary soul.
I wish I could find that child inside, the one who used to rush out to
catch the snowflakes on his tongue. The boy who once spent entire days
outside in sub-zero temperatures building snow forts with friends, all
the while oblivious to the cold and biting winds. Or, the young idealist
who grabbed his camera and his notebook and traveled about the
countryside to capture winter's beauty in photographs of frozen streams
and trees hung with snow, and write sweet, little poems about the beauty
of winter and the perseverance and eternalness of love.
You can't go back, you can only go forward. Time flows in one direction
regardless of how many memory-bridges we build to carry us back to
another day in another time. I cannot fight the fierce winds of winter
nor stop winters' iron grip from consuming all remnants of life in its
path with wistful, ephemeral memories. Winter's too cruel to allow
beautiful things on gossamer wings to live in its cold kingdom.
Hope is sacrosanct and memories, as impractical as they are, will have
to suffice. They are the only arsenal I possess to fight the unstoppable
monster of winter. I will stab at it with my warmest memories, and build
thick, high walls of hope - and wish for an early spring.
When the first purple crocus of spring shows her head, I will know that
although I have lost every battle, I have not lost the war.
Spring cannot come soon enough for me.
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