Thaw

Creak, creak, creak goes the swing. We are stealing away an hour at the playground before twilight, enjoying the rare 60 degree January day. Sebastien and I have the mile or so to the quiet playground, the one tucked in the valley between Morningside and Highland Park. And it is quiet, even on such a day–a small family is on the jungle gym, and another pre-schooler swings next to us, capturing Seb’s attention, as the two share toothy grins back and forth. We are facing toward the street, and cars go by with windows down, people surveying the playground, smiles on their faces. Bicycles zip up and down the hills–it is days like this one that increase, at least temporarily, the number of bike commuters. I am a little jealous, having spent the day working from home, helping out with brood. A small part of me would have enjoyed even a brief spin in this warmth. It’s not be, as the sun has already slipped past the horizon, and that’s alright. The walk home is slow. We meet Jen and Oren halfway, and Sebastien climbs out of the stroller. He wants to push. He runs beside it, and I periodically grab the handle to straighten his course, which prompts a shout of “No! Daddy!” But that passes quickly, and his head is down again, pushing even harder.

We linger for a bit on the front porch. I miss warm weather. I don’t mind the cold, but winter transforms our block into a bit of ghost town. We catch only passing glimpses of our neighbors, only able to share a quick hello and goodbye. The days of conversations across porches and sidewalks are gone, at least for a few months.