It is rare to get a sunny January day in Northeast Ohio. Sure, we’ll get a thaw at New Years. Fifty degrees followed by a cold snap into the teens. Your ears and joints bubble and buckle beneath the barometric shift. Erie, not yet frozen over, squalls a foot or so of impossibly fluffy lake-effect snow. Over and over. An unkindness of living near the Great Lakes.
You lie to yourself. Three more months to go.
You shovel until you realize that you’re barely winning the battle. Forget about the war.
You shovel until you puke.
By February, the snowblower has broken. Your best shovel has chipped. But you’re holding out on repair costs and not going to buy anything new. For the same superstition that the trusty shovel will sit outside, a talisman against the cold, propped against the door, until May.
Cling to your hopes of an early spring, but dare not speak them. You can’t truly believe.
We do not want to make any sudden movements.
We do not want the winter to divine our fear.
