Suddenly I realize
That if I stepped out of my body I would break
--A Blessing, James Wright
It is a false spring in New York City this year.
The sun shines warmly from the South. It blinds me as I walk down to the library.
It reminds me of walking to the gas station-cum-donut shop on the West Side Highway, and the heat radiating off the clean cement and the sparkling Hudson.
The man is washing his hot white, sharp-edged sports car outside of the projects. The stereo is blasting music. He splashes water all over the gleaming hood. It is a scene from summer in the stark winter air.
Confused, the trees have begun blooming.
There is something wrong with this; I am disturbed by the trees that are blooming prematurely. The birds are in distress. Some of them have halted their migration in its treks. The birds of spring sing in the morning dark.
We walk through the rain storm, laughing, and suddenly I am in the summer. Running through Chelsea in a thundercloud, with my laptop--oh precious laptop, vessel most treasured--trying to skirt raindrops and dodge deluges.
I am sweating in the subway stations. We walk by Christmas trees in our light summer coats. I wear summer dresses, bare legs, and stop just short of sandals.
I can't help but feel that we are being strung along. At any moment, the other foot will fall. This December spring is fraught with suspense.
Right now in Minnesota, it is 25 degrees Fahrenheit, which seems more right and just. That's a winter you can trust.
But I trust this December spring--this Indian summer--almost in spite of myself.
As someone who loves the snow and ice, and detests the warmth, I thought I would find myself more disappointed in this heat wave. But it mirrors an inner summer inside my heart.
And so I'll save my dreamings of white Christmases until I am home.