Mourning a Long Winter

Malia Waddles

Last weekend, I stood before an open window, watching a scene riddled with signs of a quickly approaching spring season. The snow was gone, the sky was clear, and there wasn’t a puffer in sight.

The sunlight sang through the crack above the window sill, pushing a warm breeze of nostalgia up against my face. The spring air carried echoes of childlike joy, but I couldn’t help but notice a strange feeling growing inside of my chest—a heavy yearning akin to homesickness. However, it wasn’t a summer of slip n’ slides, grass-stained knees, and knotted hair that I missed and craved. My heart ached for something a little less lovable. My heart longed for last month’s bitter cold wind.

“The river melted. Doesn’t that make you kinda sad?” I turned away from the now glimmering and flowing Charles River to look at one of my dear friends for support, but I was met with a look of pure judgment.

She answered with a very quick “no.” Suddenly, we were talking about our spring break plans, but my mind still lingered on the river’s new liquid form.

I suppose it’s important to note that I grew up in Southern California, where nearly every day was sunny. As a child, I had no concrete understanding of what the seasons were. All I knew were the landmarks of each: Christmas was in winter, my birthday was in spring, school ended in summer, and power outages and wildfires spoiled our fall.

I grew to hate the monotony of California weather. When it came time to apply for college, I was quick to look to the Northeast. I wanted to experience “real” seasons, but whenever I told people this, I was met with scoffs laced with both pride and pity.

My more seasoned neighbors and family members would share their horror stories about traversing the roads in harsh cold weather with frostbitten limbs, damp socks, and frozen hair. They spoke of their pasts with an ill-intentioned tongue, while watching my expressions closely, hoping to capture a hint of fear, as if they found amusement in my supposed naivete. However, no story was ever horrific enough to convince me to stay in California.

Even now, when my peers and professors question why I chose to escape an eternal summer, I respond simply: “I really love the cold.” And it’s true. I love the chaos of a violent and frigid night. This is the best time to be outside. I like going for walks and feeling the weight of my soggy jacket clinging to my shoulders as the midnight sky drips onto my forehead. I like when my hair tangles in the wind and when my nose turns pink and numb.

When it snows, I take my time walking home because it’s cold enough to see my breath. I like that. It makes me feel real. I see the little cloud of moisture slip past my lips and I’m reminded that I’m alive; it’s proof that I hold warmth and love inside of me at all times, and that makes me feel safer in my skin.

I’m not a hater of spring, but winter offers me a sort of turbulent solitude that I can’t seem to let go of. I can feel this turbulence softening into a calm and stagnant loneliness as the days get warmer.

I went for a walk the other day, in a sorry attempt to embrace the change in temperature. I didn’t need to bring a coat of any kind, which, I suppose, was kind of nice. I passed by Nickerson Field, where a group of guys were gathering. I watched as they settled in, dropping their bags on the turf and sharing laughs over stories I couldn’t hear. A couple of the guys pulled out frisbees as the rest spread out across the field. They started throwing the disks around when I spotted two people heading over to the tennis courts—something I haven’t seen happen in over three months.

I smiled to myself, thinking about how sweet my peers’ excitement for the warmth was. I felt the sun tapping on my forehead, and I realized that I shared their passion (though only a small fraction of it). I had forgotten how nice the sun can feel on bare skin.

The truth is, I like the tranquility of the heat just as much as I love the desolation of the cold, but I’ve grown to love the New England seasons too much. It hurts to part ways with any and all of them. I find much comfort in the transient nature of Boston’s spring and summer, but I still very begrudgingly greet the new season. I can only manage to accept winter’s end with a heavy and stinging heart, hoping this year’s heat isn’t too harsh or prolonged.