Morning in Minnesota, January. This is the kind of chill that freezes every atom of moisture to your face once it's exposed. The kind that freezes your snot, and you notice because you can't breathe through your mouth. The air is so frigid, every wisp of warmth is choked from movement once it escapes a chimney, a vent, even the river water. This particular morning, I was amazed, and horrified, by the serene beauty of it. Standing by my sliding doors in the dark, blanket wrapped around bare legs, I groaned - I knew I would have to walk out there in about an hour.
During this particular cold snap, I remember a conversation with co-sufferers about the way these seasons taunt us. Summers are hot and chokingly muggy, spent with hair stuck to sweaty face and drips down the spine under work attire. When I'm gasping for air and wondering why I moved from one of the dryest states to one of the most humid, I forget mornings like this when frost gathers at my eyelids after one blink.
Even so, I can't say I hate it. It's population control, so my dad says.
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