There are many things I love about you. After the broiling heat of summer and the pretend chill of Fall, you blow into my world like a … Well, like a breath of fresh air, if you will excuse the pun.
There is nothing quite as lovely or exciting as the anticipation of the first snowfall. And nothing quite so beautiful as watching the world around me become something strange and new beneath a blanket of pristine, icy white. You bring Christmas, New Year’s, and Valentine’s Day — worthy holidays, all. You bring the fun of sledding and snowball fights and making snow angels. You make me smile when I hear the laughter and shrieks of joy from all the kiddos playing outside, enjoying your bounty with giddy abandon. You bring the quiet hush of a snowbound night, when there are no cars on the streets and not even the trains are running. The world seems suddenly big and uncertain without these familiar noises, but I find my heart thrilling to the new-found peace of it all. You bring family time and long evenings spent all together, perhaps watching a movie or sitting before a warm fire. Also, nothing grows while you are around, and, as someone who is allergic to pretty much everything, I can appreciate this quite a lot.
All of these things, Winter, are your doing. They are all beautiful and worthy and much beloved.
I don’t want you to get the wrong idea, Winter. It’s not so much that what you’re doing is a bad thing. It’s more that … Well, there’s just so MUCH of it. Our first snow was thrilling and exciting. But the second … third … fourth … fifth … etc. snows? Eh, not so much. You have given us so many snow days that I think my daughter will be in school nearly until July. At this point, you are infringing upon Summer’s territory, and that just seems wrong on a very basic level. If we lowly mortals have to learn to share, I think it’s only fair that you seasons do the same. You know what “they” say: Sharing is Caring.
And, I’m sure you are not surprised to hear this Winter, but I’ll say it anyhow: the Robins are angry. They are busy, self-important, angry little birds. And they are out there: an army of Spring’s harbingers, pecking away at your snows as if they could push your icy grip back by sheer force of will. You are treading on dangerous territory here, Winter. If you mess with the Robins too much, they will cut you. Don’t be fooled by their cuteness.
In short, much as I will miss you … much as I will long for you in the depths of Summer’s broiling heat … much as I will think fondly of you in the throes of my Spring allergies … It’s time for you to go, Winter. It’s March now. You’ve had your fun, and it’s time to let someone else have a turn.