Melting

To judge by appearances alone, a Wisconsin March is drearier even than November. The temperature today hit 50 for the first time since . . . well, it's been a while. As a result, the snowbanks, which have been slowly growing until they are in some places up to my chest, are all melting at once, covering the world with a mess of mud and slush. Nothing has budded yet, so my window provides a charming view of bare trees, dead fields, and the grey-brown remains of snow. The sky, heavy with rain, is a similar dingy color, and a cold mist completes the effect. And yet there is an enormous emotional difference, if not much of an aesthetic one, between a world that is waiting to die and one that is trying to be born. The ability to walk outside without gloves or scarf, and feel the mist on your skin, is irrationally exciting. The muddy slush splashing up on your pants leg is beautiful in its wetness. All day I have been humming Beach Boys' songs (having momentarily forgotten, in my exuberance, that I hate the Beach Boys), and the dingy gray sky has been humming along with me.

"For if we have been united together in the likeness of his death, we certainly also shall be in the likeness of his resurrection."