Yesterday was spent in Portsmouth with Emma, Alice, and Ollie, "popping into shops" and wandering from coffee shop to restaurant to coffee shop, trying to stay warm by coveting the sweaters in windows.
Alice and I made the mistake of wearing tights and dresses, and we realized that the weather has made its decision. It's only been the past week, but it is now way, way too cold to wander around in anything less than an eskimo parka.
From Facebook and a lovely cell phone picture of Kili all bundled up, I've gathered that it is snowing back home. I can just see Bellingham covered in snow, that yellowish glow that lights up the sky at night and allows drunk college students to sled late into the night. I can see Red Square as it is when the snow starts to fall, before anyone else is outside and there's only your own footprints leading into the middle of the fountain. I can see Ian's parents' cars at the bottom of their treacherous driveway, anticipating the sheet of ice that will cover it in the next few days. I can see Clementine's little footprints on the balcony the first time she ever saw snow, hesitant and leading to her hiding place under Seamus's old silver chair.
I thought that in moving to New England I would be moving somewhere where snow is more common, but we haven't gotten a flake yet this season, despite it being below freezing come nightfall. I suppose I shouldn't be too jealous. I suppose I shouldn't complain. Once it starts snowing here, it won't stop. We'll have cold and snow for months and months, and it will melt down to those awful snowbanks on the sides of the road that are dirty and solid packed ice.
But I've always held that if it's going to be this cold anyway, it might as well snow. If I'm walking around in boots and heavy coats, I at least want it to be a damn winter wonderland outside, otherwise I'm just freezing cold for no good reason.