It’s early in the morning, the light is a claustrophobic layer of darkness, the early promise of spring has been broken.
Groaning I feel like covering up my head and continuing on with hibernation, which is what the rest of the world is doing right now.
Winter has decided to give us a memory to take with us well into summer, and it’s approaching the bitter cold temperatures of a normal winter for this climate.
He waves goodbye to me crouching like a zombie at the computer, “I’m getting the paper” he says. But not before he flings open all the drapes on the lower floor exposing us like frantic goldfish in a round bowl with no where to hide. Light spills onto the lawn, the frozen tundra a landscape of grey mounds, and misshapen branches.
I mutter under my breath, as the cold seemingly permeates every corner, the furnace furiously trying to keep up with the sudden change to chill. “Keep them closed until the light changes.” “Nonsense” he declares “it’s daylight in the swamp.” We have this discussion too many mornings, me insisting that they stay closed until we can at least make out objects in the yard, him declaring it daylight… in the swamp, his favourite good morning wake up call.
He manoeuvres the life saving oil filled heater from beside my legs where it is barely giving off heat, to a spot nearer the cat, who is crouched sulkily on the rug besides my chair. It’s survival of the warmest here, and the fur coated, spoiled wake up call is demanding all available heat sources. It’s a fight I lose every morning, but I am resigned to the cold now, and soon it will be spring, I think to myself.
Keys jingling, summer light jacket undone, he fails to see the shivers that rack my body. My feet frozen to the floor I can only nod, it’s dark, it’s early, and it’s cold. He seems to not notice any of that.
“Shouldn’t you be putting a winter jacket on to go trek up the frozen north and get the newspaper?” I ask him only half jokingly, this despite what the temperatures are… and this week they are the coldest of the winter. It’s fine he reassures me… he doesn’t feel the cold. “Sweetie, put another layer on, and some gloves,” I implore him… most people wear winter jackets, “why don’t you try yours on, it’s cold out there.”
Sitting here barely moving, the darkness pressing against the windows like a peeping Tom, snow a stiff horse blanket outside, thick ice in streaks on the streets, I just can’t see not feeling the cold. I day dream of white beaches, and warm surf… not chilled limbs, and white landscapes.
“You're not blogging about this are you?” he asks, I merely smile sagely, paybacks, and all that… take my heater away, what more do I need to say.
A while later the door opens, and a gust of cold artic air permeates the house, “daylight,” he exclaims, “here feel” he laughs as he extends a frozen finger my way. Giggling, I duck out of the way. The cat purrs happily in his domed insulated house the best and warmest spot in the place, the oil filled heater situated right in front of him. His duty is done for a few blissful hours, he’s woken us up, the can openers are moving around, he can now go back to sleep.
My feet have no feeling, there is a wicked draft around my legs, the light creeping through the slats in the window blinds barely illuminates the movement of the birds searching for breakfast.
This time it’s truly daylight in the swamp.