The Slowness of Molasses in the Wintertime

I am relieved when the winter holydaze are over. I know I am not the only one. Living in California makes one thin-skinned when it comes to seasons. My thoughts have fogged over and grayed, they hang low like the bellies of rainless clouds. In the morning I arise with sticky eyes – the central heating has dehumidified my lips; my tongue rests between rows of dry white pebbles.

Recent storms have turned our yard into a marsh. This winter existence is, somehow, simultaneously arid and soggy. I constantly emerge from a vague dream of icebergs in a sunless desert. My body resists movement. Hibernation is a real possibility. I am definitely prepared for it, after all that holiday gorging on various meats, creams, gravies, crusts, salts, and sweets. I am heavy and wide, a bear grumblingly turning inside her winter cave, a hoarder of sluggishness. 

Even the clocks tick more slowly, as if their innards have been dipped in mud. 

Is it possible to radiate an anti-glow? If so, I believe that is just what I’m doing.

But it is a new year, the end of the gorging season, and only 69 days left until daylight savings time. Lord, hear my prayer.