Mike heads out to shovel last nights new layer of snow, donning a down filled jacket and warm gloves. The snow in the back yard reaches halfway to the bottom of the windows, piled in drifts. He crunches across the path to the garage, trees bare, white and gray as far as the eye can see. A feeble sun hides in the gray skies.
The oven is on, creating something warm for dinner. I will leave it open a crack, to help warm the kitchen. I add extra layers, and cuddle up with a hot cup of tea and a good book.
June: the temperature hits 103, heat shimmering off the road surface. Sidewalks dry, some heaving in the heat. Cars drive by with loud mufflers, windows rolled down, the bass of stereos thumping. The field across the street is full of softball players, and the cheers of their family. Sweat rolls down their faces as they walk to the bench for cold water.
I head out to water my thirsty plants. In a light cotton skirt and tshirt and flip flops, wishing I could shed it all. The backyard is a vibrant green jungle. My peony plant, nearly 4 feet tall, just about ready to burst into bloom. Our neighbors yard obscured by the lushness of plants and shrubs. I brush away bugs as I make my way to the garage for garden gloves. The sky is blue, the sun a red ball as it starts to sink toward the horizon.
The air conditioner is on, struggling to cool the house in the stifling heat. We pull a cold tuna salad out of the fridge for dinner, and slice cool slivers of watermelon. We stay inside, it's too hot to go out. I wear the lightest clothes possible, and stretch out in the air conditioned coolness with a glass of iced tea and a good book.