I am writing this last month. I don’t know if it’s me, but it has been really cold this winter. I, who never wear gloves — but have a large collection of single non-matching pairs — actually took to wearing them.
I found myself preparing to exit the grocery store, car keys in my gloved hand so I could rush out and hit the remote and jump in the car before the warmth of the store blew away in the wind.
This plan — which I have seen others do in the past — went horribly awry when I found that my remote would not function when pressed by a gloved finger. As my teeth started to chatter, I removed my right hand from the snuggly confines of its wooly warmth, pushed the remote, and hopped in the car.
Button pushed, groceries and body in car, turn the key, hope that the engine still has some heat. Vroom! And off I go. All reorganized, time to put the glove back on. Where’s the glove? I must have dropped it but — believe it or not — it is much too cold to go look for it.
So I go back to the house, right hand turning blue, fumble with the icy keys, and then inside where the heat really works in only one room.
Here it is, late January, and there is a touch of spring in the air, raining not snowing and the snow from last week is melting. I shall endeavor to avoid the heavy wool and down and head out into the heat of the high 40s. Last week I went out to buy a new pair of gloves and the racks were empty.
Maybe I should go back to the store where I last saw my glove and see if it has a lost and found?
Why bother, for in a few weeks we’ll have the February thaw where it hits the mid-50s for a day and all the cooler teenagers wear t-shirts and shorts because “it’s not cold.”
There is a slight tinge of green on the tundra, forsythias start thinking about popping, and the line at the carwash is longer than usual.
It’ll be a nice sunny day and a good one to wait in line while I listen to the world fall apart on the radio. After I go through the spraying and buffing and suds, I will pull the car up and take the opportunity, while I wait for the attendants to finish the job, to go through a long winter’s heap of trash behind the seat.
Which is where I find my glove.
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