When I Talk About Winter
The dark side of my love for the season.
Winter is the time I buy a lot of things I don’t need; oversized knits that gladly conceal the lines on my skin, boots that bolster my posture, instilling a confidence that I otherwise lack, beanies that hang over my eyes, perhaps never designed for a forehead as small as mine. Winter is my moment of amnesia; the brutalities of the relentless summer are long forgotten. I stock up on fleece-lined gloves that refuse to take the shape of my hands. The sweaters start to fray after a wash or two, so I buy what is called a depiller. The heft of the bomber jackets weighs my shoulders down, nullifying the effect of the over-the-knee boots that I’m too self-conscious to wear outside of my bedroom. When it’s time to face the world, I settle for a bland pair of sneakers. How does one measure the worth of a self that has so much time for appearances?
Winter is the season that means different things to different people. That holds true in a geographical sense, of course, but also in the way of who can afford to find the season beautiful.
Towards the end of September each year, I recognize the mellowing rays of the late afternoon sun, a promising sign that the weather has begun to turn. The autumnal sunlight bathes the lawn in a particular shade of yellow, its rays softening a little with every passing day. As the weeks go by, the nip in the air muffles the sharp cries and noises that have assaulted my senses all year long. It is as if the city is spent, and it now must lay still and supine, until the warmer weather comes to its rescue. In these weeks, I come alive.
I sit out in the sun with a book, the only time of the year I actually read. I dislike the texture of sunscreen, so I allow my skin to age beneath the brilliant winter sun.
A habitual mouth breather, I inhale the pronounced toxicity in the air, hoping it’ll stifle some of the sadness inside of me. I realize it’s always colder inside than out, yet the cold is my best excuse for staying in.
Every now and then, I think of the boys who used to live in my neighbourhood. Maybe they still live there, I wouldn’t know. I used to watch them from my bedroom window, because that’s all I dared to do. I watched the weather work its way into their skin. By the time October came around, they would don an unassuming, breezy sweater, a sense of nonchalance defining their gait. As the weeks went by, a layer or two would be added to their clothing. Such a delight it was to be united in experience by the same cold. Winter, the great leveller.
Today, when I look out the window, there is life on the margins, popularly identified as the sidewalk. We donate sweaters and blankets, furthering our pursuit of minimalism, but warmth has rarely been known to melt the contours of fate. Winter, the great discriminator.
I remember the winter of 2009, my first since graduating college, the year I believed I was coming into my own. I believed I was reclaiming the city, driving into the blinding night fog, falling in love with the freedom of taking myself places, in a car I could never have afforded on my own, refilling the tank with fuel I didn’t have to pay for. My handbags—for I had more than one—were filled with grocery bills that told a story of nothing but wine, whisky and bad decisions.
That winter, I met a man older than me—a man who cooked his own meals, listened to Sufi music, and had a particular fondness for younger women. I remember the first time I stepped into his apartment. It was a cold December afternoon, the stark white walls pressing in around the dark, cavernous space. The décor was aggressively utilitarian, the walls blank and unwelcoming. But what struck me most was the garish upholstery, the unmistakable outcome of bad taste.
One evening, he asked to read my fiction. After a pause, he said, “It’s not bad, but anyone could write like this.”
It was the kind of remark that lingered—sharp, dismissive, and, perhaps, not entirely untrue.
I spent that winter intoxicated by the magic of new love, which I now know to be truly blind. That winter romance was my last brush with utter, hapless naiveté.
These winters, I stay in, gladly antisocial, scouring the Internet for a store that retails rice milk. Dairy doesn’t sit well anymore, but I still fancy a rich hot cocoa, the taste of which unites all my memories of winter.
The weather in my city begins to turn, yet again. The mosquitoes and the wasps and the lizards rise from their deep slumber, sensing the first of the familiar tropical heat.
The sun grows warmer by the day, sometimes bordering on unpleasant. The city is growing noisier by the day. The winter is on its way out, leaving my heart bereft of all warmth. I open the doors to my winter wardrobe and run my fingers along the soft, warm fabrics that have never seen the light of day.
Deep as winter night.
Brief as a winter day.
Loved it and longed for a longer winter day.
Note: the above comments are not embellished with fictitious words.