a grey midwinter day

There is something about the grey midwinter day. The cold presses in around you, stifling, weighty. Even through the kitchen window, as I clean dishes in hot water, tea kettle whistling, space heater blowing, even then the cold fills me, creeps into my corners of my being, dulling my thoughts.

The world is silent, as I watch through the window. Silent smoke curling into the sky, silent snow falling, in tiny flakes, glassy diamonds from above, dusting layers upon layers. Silent birds hop about in the snow, up onto the feeder, the dark junco and chickadee and then the bright flashes of the cardinal and jay, the only color in my view.

The snow lies in heaving mounds around the yard, footsteps from brave bundled children winding in circles. Out onto the meadow it lies flat, pressed down by the wind like an iron has passed over its whiteness, only a single line of deer tracks marring its surface. The woods are quiet too. I haven’t seen a single deer this winter.

Aside from the darting blues and reds of the birds it is a dreary grey world. And I am in it. Sipping tea. Wearing a ridiculous wool cape and fingerless gloves, fleece pants and shearling lined slippers. Watching nature videos on the couch, wrapped in blankets. Reading book about jungles. Waiting for the world to come alive again.

“What are flowers like?” my daughter cries one day. We take her to the conservatory in the big city nearby and her blue eyes well up with tears at the greens, pinks, yellows and reds. Color mama!

The grey has become tiresome.

And then on some days, we wake up to the sun rising through the trees, visible again, the sheet of grey clouds erased for the time being. The brilliant blue then paints over the sky, pulling across its canvas the welcome color, with the white wisps of frozen cloud far above, and though these days are the coldest, the birds sing out fiercely, crying out in a pained glory at the rays of the sun.

And I cry too, in pained glory, at the blue sky and golden sun, remembering days at the lake, the waves, the sand, the grasses, the clover with its lazy bumblebee. How could that possibly be the same sun?

And we make more tea. Put another log on the fire. And wait.

About Sara Johnson-Steffey

Writer, dreamer, schemer, international adventurer, gardener, denim-jumper-wearing homeschooling mama.

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