Winter's End

By Andrea Scarpino

Marquette, the end of our first winter. Or not really the end. Last weekend, four inches of wet and heavy snow. Our car wipers froze to windshield glass, ice coated the stairs, sea gulls flew into blowing snow. But it’s spring, officially, crocuses in full bloom, daylight lasting longer and longer, more birds than I’ve seen in months, mallard ducks returned, finches. Sidewalks finally clean of salt and sand.

All in all, the winter was—well, winter. Less snow than I expected, fewer days of bitter temperatures. I’m realizing that I expected winter in Marquette to be one long blizzard, scarves wrapped around my face, endless burrowing through chest-high snow, wildlife roaming the streets in search of food. I expected it to be like the Arctic exploring books my step-father read me when I was little: I might lose fingertips, toes, the tops of my ears. I might have to save myself by building a makeshift ice shelter.

As it was, 12 feet of snow fell, but it didn’t come all at once and never seemed like that much. We cross-country skied two or three times a week, walked to the grocery store and bank, ran outside on a couple of occasions. It was winter, sometimes bleaker than I would have liked—especially February—but overall, quite manageable. Lovely, even.

The lake, for one, was beautiful. Ice formed along the waterline, moved and shifted as the wind changed direction. And icicles grew from building eaves, windowsills. Snow fell differently on different days depending on temperature, humidity, wind. Sometimes it stuck wetly to our skis, slowing down each glide, sometimes it crunched dryly underfoot, sometimes disappeared almost entirely before it reached the ground. And the trees, hushed under snow’s accumulation. Or clattering in its icy embrace. Or just bare—thick limbs leading to branches leading to whisper-thin veins. Against a blue sky, against gray.

Yes, I’m tired of layering, of leaving the house wearing two hats and tights under my pants. I’m ready to run on actual ground, ready to see the sun regularly. But everyone’s doomsday predictions turned out to be nothing at all. It was winter. Snow fell, rivers froze over, sometimes my fingers were terribly cold, sometimes I didn’t want to leave the house. But there was beauty everywhere, in the sound of the few remaining birds, in snow clinging to roof shingles and evergreens. In the way cold air against my bare face made me breathe deeply. Made me feel alive.

Poet and essayist Andrea Scarpino is a frequent contributor to POTB. You can visit her at http://www.andreascarpino.com

Author: stevekuusisto

Poet, Essayist, Blogger, Journalist, Memoirist, Disability Rights Advocate, Public Speaker, Professor, Syracuse University View all posts by stevekuusisto