The Dwindling of Seasons
New York doesn’t seem to have four seasons anymore. We are thrust back and forth between each extreme of sweltering and humid and freezing and windy. Spring and fall peek through momentarily, brief moments of bliss that have the city feeling like we all collectively won the lottery. How lucky we are to feel a gentle breeze on our skin and sun that doesn’t sting yet, to walk amongst the trees swiftly shedding their leaves, hurrying winter over.
New York City had a historic winter season with over 43 inches of snowfall and a deep-freeze that lasted sixteen days and established the longest sub-freezing stretch in over 60 years. It was not only well above average but a significant shift for the many that moved to New York over the last few years and hadn’t ever seen more than a few snowflakes that melt before even reaching the pavement. Above average for the rest of us, too, that became accustomed to mild winters.
The city was confused. Where are we supposed to put all of this snow? For weeks we struggled crossing city streets over mountains of snow piled, slippery street-sludge covered terrain. Eventually this all has to melt. Except extremely frigid temperatures continued for weeks with seemingly no end in sight. As someone old enough to hear every winter event compared to the great blizzard of ’96, it was finally time for everyone to collectively admit this was worse. The chill was blindsiding.
February wasn’t just a walk down Blizzard Memory Lane or another stark reminder that climate change is rapidly destroying the earth as we know it. It was also my first time getting sick since 2019.
My first time with covid. The first time I actually confused allergies for a virus. Still no fever. The first time I didn’t rely on a nebulizer to regulate my breathing. The first time I lost my ability to smell and taste. The first time I wasn’t sure if it would come back. The first time I got my husband so sick I wasn’t sure if he’d recover. The first time I had to spend Thanksgiving away from family and friends. In fact it was much longer than we’d expect.
We had covid for over a month. The day we assume we caught it must have been when we went to a Kaytranada show at the Barclay’s Center. The show was spectacular, everyone was dancing from the moment the show started until the very last moment. The air was thick with sweat and excitement, and presumably also covid since it was only two days later that I would be eating a bagel with orange juice wondering why it seemed like the flavor was in another dimension. Almost there, but not quite. Allergies, I thought.
Until, three days after that Charles came down with a fever. I never coughed but suddenly he couldn’t stop. We had completely different symptoms aside from the loss of smell and taste, and we stayed like that for weeks. Recovery was gradual and sluggish. Then came the freeze, another brutal winter after so many years off we forgot what a northeastern winter feels like. Immune system rattled, the congestion in my nose turned into a dry cough that persisted. By the end of it we were alarmed at how long it was taking to feel normal again.
We didn’t see the sidewalk for a month. The snow froze into dirt covered boulders that were piled and shoved into corners of the street. Silence stretched across the distance at night and darkness settled in early during the day. Bodies shuffling on and off train cars, shoes squeaking, breath visible.
The groundhog saw his shadow in February and correctly predicted what we hoped wouldn’t happen. There was in fact many more weeks left of winter, and nothing would melt.
The first tepid rainfall felt like finally taking a deep breath. We longed for it, the glimmer of hope that the snow could melt and spring might return soon. But a couple of days later we had over a foot of snow fall to the ground yet again. Dreadful deja vu.
The people long for a moderate season. Something between needing eight layers and a heavy coat or melting under the burning sun in a tank top and shorts. Like the impactful Miss Congeniality meme where Heather Burns’s character mentions that April 25th is her idea of the “best date” because the weather is so perfect that “all you need is a light jacket.”
New Yorkers haven’t gotten enough use out of their light jackets. Hung up toward the front of the closet, eager to be taken out.
But it’s 42 degrees and windy today so it stays hanging there, waiting to be needed.
