Six More Weeks

Date: 12 February 2017

Time: 5:00pm

Temperature: 44°F (feels like 37°F)

It’s windy today, but this wind is different than typical February wind. The storm looming in the sky is different than the storm we got last week.

Last week, I disappeared into my room for a few hours, sealed off from the rest of the world, hiding from civilization, from responsibilities, from the promised six more weeks of winter. A few short hours later, I appeared out of my hole and, much like Phil, saw my shadow, the full moon’s light reflexing off the sudden one to two inches of fresh snow on the ground.

The snow appeared like a mirage. It came so quickly that I knew winter had finally reared its ugly head, that it had finally settled into something of a routine. I can finally accept that winter is here, that my boots will no longer gather dust, that we’ll be shoveling on a daily basis and throwing salt like rice at a wedding.

Now, sitting on the garden box surrounding my tree, I see that winter has once again disappeared: mud has caked my Converse, puddles have settled on our driveway. Some of the trees around our yard, around our town have started to grow buds, and I fear, like many winters, that they will not made it until mid-May when the fear of frost is almost nonexistent.

There is a small scent of it in the air, in the wind that loosens pieces of hair from my bun. Instead of the sky being white and blindingly blue, it is gray, coal-colored clouds spotting the horizon. It’s supposed to rain tonight. My dog is probably hiding in the basement from the hollowing wind. The groundhogs that live under our shed—no matter how often and fanatically we try to rid ourselves of them. If I didn’t grow up resenting them, I might find them cute, with their round ears, upturned nose, button eyes, short and chubby frame, and buckteeth.

Maybe Phil is getting older, developing Groundhog-Alzheimer’s. Maybe he is tired of Pennsylvania weather and its unpredictability. Maybe he is frustrated with how we treat him, giving him all too much attention for only one day a year and then hating him for unfailingly seeing his shadow (which would be hard not to with all of those flashing cameras flood lights on).

Whether or not Phil sees his shadow, we still get six more weeks of “winter”, whether it be a blizzard similar to that of 1993, of Snowmageddon or whether it be a day filled with memories yearning of springtime. But we do need to take notice how drastically these seasons have changed since we were children, since our parents were children. This, we cannot deny much longer, is clear evidence of, weather we want to see it or not, global climate change.