NY Times – The Winter Has Gotten Old:

Then I’m laying out my winter clothes and wishing I was gone, going home, where the New York City winters aren’t bleeding me.” So goes the Simon and Garfunkel song, buried deep in the memory, an oldie that seems to have been around for as long as this old winter has.

And long it has been. Long stretches of painfully frigid weather, brief respites, then more snow, ice and freezing rain. Freeze, thaw, repeat — the cycle xpands in the mind to unbearable infinities, the unyielding sensation of being trapped.

But check the calendar: This week means we are officially in late February, which means March. March means daffodils, which means this all must eventually end.

Until then, we wait, battered and diminished. Winter shrinks the vision, narrows it to the limits of a parka hood. It numbs the heart, dulls the reflexes of graciousness and gratitude as people’s behavior on sidewalks and train platforms shifts to self-preservation. It bends the neck, as the eyes scan for ice, gauging the leapability of slush puddles and the danger of left-turning, nonyielding cabs. Is that filthy, black-edged snowbank crusty enough to slip on, or soft enough to sink into? Will I break my ankle or just soak it? Should I give up now, and die right here? It’s windy. It hurts. I can’t go on.

I’ll go on…

Do be sure to go on.  Read the rest here: ~ The Winter Has Gotten Old

Thank you Susan