cold around the edges

You know the feeling. The one that sneaks in when the nights start to turn chilly, when you begin to reach for a bathrobe in the mornings and a cardigan or slippers at night, when going barefoot on wood floors no longer sounds appealing, when drafts start to creep in around the windows. Winter is coming. You’re not frozen at the core, not yet; it’s not time to pull out the down coats and wool hats, but you’re chilly around the edges.

After the long months of snowy days and frigid winds and seeing your breath in the air every single time you go out, the air begins to thaw a bit. You still bundle up in the thick coat on some mornings, but most of the time now you reach for a wool coat, even a lighter jacket on occasion. You don’t always have to wear a hat or gloves when you walk outside at lunchtime. You stop in the park and turn your face up to the sun, and just for a moment, you are really warm.

But at night, when you’re home and the blessedly longer evenings have eventually turned to dark, when tiny stars pierce the clear, sharp sky and the wind whistles around the eaves of the house like a moaning ghost in a campfire story, you still reach for that cardigan and those slippers. You pull a blanket around you as you sit on the couch, knitting or reading or watching an episode of Friends. And you’re only too glad to huddle down under the covers, the chilly tip of your nose peeking out above them.

It’s not deep winter any more; the snow has all but melted and the trees are covered with tiny, hopeful buds, the size of wheat kernels, red and gold germs of promise. The high temperatures are twice what they were a month ago. And you are grateful.

But it’s not time to shed the jackets yet, or to bare any skin besides your face and hands. You cannot yet afford to leave the house without putting on a few layers, tucking a scarf or cap into your bag. The spring winds may be fresh, but they carry a chill. For now, at least, it’s still cold around the edges.

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