What is with this weather, this winter?
Can we even call it a winter?
It doesn’t feel real here in Connecticut.
It hasn’t really happened yet.
That terrible thing, that S word, that curse word of which I won’t speak.
Instead, a week into January I’m stepping out onto my balcony in a t-shirt and hair still wet from the shower, snapping away at this strange, blurry blue sky.
A year without winter is everything I could hope for, it would be a magical, wonderful gift.
And yet it makes me feel this darkness rise up.
The world is ending.
This is probably just one of the signs.