Bring back real winters

Photo courtesy of THE MACDUFFIE SCHOOL/Pexels

An impenetrable darkness hugs me, interrupted only by the fluorescence of lamposts, which sparsely illuminate the pools of water coalesced in the dips of the sidewalk. The pavement is black and slick, and the white light reflecting in the water glistens and shifts as I hurriedly walk home.

My arms are full because my bag was overflowing, and I have barely made it outside when the wind slants and rain pelts the ground in an increasing crescendo. The panic to reach my umbrella and unfurl it amidst the clutter in my arms sets in; the beating of my heart mimics the crescendoing splats on the pavement.

I manage to open the umbrella quickly, which absorbs the patter of the rain instead of my hair and skin, but the umbrella cannot defeat the wind fighting its way through the fabric of my clothes. The wind weaves through even the tightest of stitches, enveloping my body like a cold hug; the puddles of water leech through the cracks in the soles of my boots.

The sun sets earlier now, but I do not. I bitterly think of when the sun used to set late in the evening. I think of when a day’s humidity would finally crack and unleash a torrent of rain. I think of when my family would gather in the living room to listen to thunder roll, and watch the lightning backlight the woods, instead of the interspersed lamp posts lighting the way home.

And then I recall how, when the sun set early, it used to mean snow was on its way as a kid. It used to mean believing in Jack Frost when the car’s windshield had frozen over and your father scraped it away, making eye contact and a silly face when he got to your window. It was the white, sparkling lawn, and cold mornings spent sleepily looking out the window onto a quieted world on the way to school. It was coming home to a warm house and traversing through snow-covered trees in the backyard, imagining it was another world and truly believing it was.

The runny noses, cold seeping through layers of clothing, the cheeks and tips of noses blushed pink—they have stayed with us, but for the wrong reasons. What has left are the thick snowflakes that would fall continuously, piling into a coating of cold fluff you could, in turn, fall into. Now the snow promptly melts upon meeting the still-green lawns. Instead of weeks of snow pushed into packed mountains to keep sidewalks clear, there are months of rain, biting winds, and everlasting puddles.

I would much rather face the miserable cold accompanied by snow than by rain. Rain comes and goes—a horrible experience in the cold, a wonderful experience in the warmth—and leaves wet dreariness behind during the winter months.

Snow is the experience of pausing mid-stride, sticking your tongue out in the hopes of catching a flake, giggling, and rushing to catch up with friends. Snow, or at least the right kind of snow, leaves behind a landscape semi-permanently tucked in with a white blanket. Snow leaves behind a blank slate in which the world is whole and innocent—a place for the guiltless actions of making snowangels, or making an igloo, or throwing the first snowball.

The magic of snow is still there, hidden behind the new, muddy season created by climate change. There is also a certain magic to rain that I will not deny, but the months have altered as the world changes, letting it rain when it should snow. The little girl in me who got her wish of a snowy Christmas many years ago is waiting in aimless hope for the next time the world is awash in sparkling white.