It is the middle of December. I just stepped out of the house to snap a picture of the forsythia. It's blooming.
The weather is balmy and gorgeous, but I feel anxious. It feels ominous, this upset-the-fruit basket weather. Our wood stove sits, stone cold and dark. Our winter coats hang uselessly on their hooks. Flies swarm the kitchen.
Even with a brisk breeze, the air feels stifling, claustrophobic. I keep having the thought—a daytime nightmare, really—that I am trapped inside a house that's locked tight and the temperature is rising, except in this case it's the whole world that's heating up. We're trapped in our atmosphere with nowhere to go.
Perhaps I'm being melodramatic. That's always a possibility. On the other hand, there's climate change and El Niño, so something is going on, right? Whatever it is, it makes me feel slightly panicked. Which is too bad because then I can't enjoy this lovely springtime December weather.
This same time, years previous: the quotidian (12.15.14), crazier than usual, gingerbread men, and a smashed finger.