Every day I roll out of bed and go to the kitchen to make tea. I’m off coffee but rely on that mug of English Breakfast to perk me up a bit every morning. It’s a compromise. While I’m getting dressed I peer out the window at the sky while I check the weather report on my phone. It’s always, without fail, something along the lines of “in the 30’s and overcast.” I choose another sweater from the growing pile and pull on my boots, poofy coat, scarf, gloves, earmuffs. With a sigh I trudge out the door looking like a marshmallow with legs.
The view from my small office window, eight floors up, is always the same. The gently sloping hillside, covered with barren brown trees sticking out of the ground like toothpicks. Their skinny, skeletal branches fan against the gray sky. There are no cotton ball clouds, no blue up above. It is just gray, and the pallor cast from the sky makes everything look sickly and washed out, like a photo that’s overexposed.
At lunch I force myself to put back on the layers of winterwear, pull my socks and boots back on to my feet, and wander around outside for a bit. I walk up and down sidewalks cracked and weathered from the cold, across violent-colored rock salt, and up and down brown, muddy hillsides. Sometimes it snows, sometimes it’s windy. It’s always overcast.
I want winter to be over. I want to see the sun.