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Friday, July 30, 2010

winter. no, spring.

For the entire winter, I have been wearing an ancient coat I inherited when my father died. The label inside states that it was made by Durburg, that it is "all wool" and "weatherproof". I don't know the history of the coat; maybe I'll remember to ask Mother when they visit us on Sunday. Possibly my father purchased it on one of his work-related trips to Europe.

The coat has an expensive feel, but it is rather worse for the wear. The lining inside has all but disintegrated and the pocket seams have come undone, so that when I put something small in the pocket it ends up inside the lining and I have to fish it out. I'm sure the people at work think there is something wrong with me. I think the time has come for me to retire the threadbare old coat.

I took this picture late last night before going to bed, knowing that I wanted to post it today. I wonder what the landlords think when they see a camera flash in our bedroom at 23:00 on a not so cold Thursday evening.

The only other winterable coat I have is a long black one I inherited from my paternal grandfather. I love wearing it but it makes me look like a vampire and it is not very warm.

The point I am trying to make is that it has been a very cold and difficult winter.

Yesterday morning when I was at work early (again), I was outside just as the sun came up. I noticed a slight change in the air and knew that winter's back has been broken. I've started to notice other small things as well, such as the cats not snuggling under the blankets at night anymore; they sleep on top of the covers instead. Winds have started blowing from the south and many days now there are clouds instead of just the sterile blue sky.

I wonder if this buoyant feeling that comes over me has been bred into my genes from the time that humans were hunter-gatherers and farmers. Spring still means abundance to me. It feels strange to come out of hibernation, so to speak, and to change my drab grey coat for a more colourful one.

At school we were taught that winter is a season of hidden growth. I have let my book lie fallow for the entire winter. Now I am looking forward to working on it again, eager to discover how it has matured in my mind these three months. But only once the rain comes. I'm weird like that.

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