It’s the end of February when I am writing this. I feel as though winter has moved into my living room and into my bathroom—and even is hogging the bed.
She has a cold icy grip on my soul and I can’t shake her off. As soon as I tuck into bed at night, the cold air biting at me despite my feet cowering next to a hot water bottle, every worry, every burden parades through my mind and sleep makes a run for it.
I don’t know where sleep goes but it doesn’t hang around in my bedroom. I’ve checked. I look under the bed. No sleep. I look in the closet deep into the corners. No sleep.
I check my sock drawer and the laundry basket. Nothing.
I keep searching the rest of the house. I look through the hall closet. I’ve searched through my Kakuro and Sudoku puzzle books. Not there.
I’ve even turned on the television to see if any announcement as to sleep’s whereabouts is flashing on the screen like an all-points bulletin, but sleep isn’t to be found.
Sleep isn’t under the couch or behind any doors, and it certainly is not under the skylight in the bathroom where winter is pushing in—leaving a trail of melted snow dripping on my head and bubbling up the paint.
At moments, I think winter just might come crashing right through the ceiling and crush me.
I think maybe sleep and winter are performing a covert operation to rob me of any shut-eye, and take my perseverance and grind it to dust.
Sounds like a very sad tale, doesn’t it. Poor me (please note the sarcasm). I know my worries don’t measure up to health problems or unemployment, though my monthly income is laughable.
Being a writer doesn’t allow for an opulent lifestyle, though I have no interest in opulence, never have.
My worries are relatively manageable when I look around at homelessness and loneliness and terminal illness and lost children, and the list is a long one of worries that exceed mine. But sometimes we forget and our worries begin to crush us.
I know March will restore the hope and the conviction that I will survive. When the mountains of snow begin to retreat from the driveway tunnel that winter has created, I’ll begin to have a bounce to my step.
When I can walk “Gracie” somewhere beyond the driveway and the shoulder-less road that runs past my house, I’ll feel more myself. When I don’t have to tie a rope to my waist to safely make it to the composter and back, I’ll be rejuvenated.
And hopefully I won’t start worrying about next winter and survival.
If you’ve watched Rick Mercer’s humour on the sad fate of eastern Canada, you’ll know from where my whining is coming. He certainly makes me laugh.
His recent sketch about the seven-day forecast made me howl.
I start my day looking at that forecast to see if any melting is in my near future, if any above zero temperatures will save me (there are none in any forecast, I might add).
Environment Canada isn’t even bothering with trying to keep me from insanity by instilling false hope. They aren’t throwing in a single thaw in any foreseeable future.
So for now, the worries and uncertainties have a firm grip on my usually sunny nature.
And, of course, sleep isn’t anywhere to be seen.
wendistewart@live.ca
Fort Frances Times
Local News from Across the Rainy River District
