Maybe in June

Photo by Henry McIntosh

I look through the window at the ice-laden patio furniture with their covers skewed from the recent winds. I should go out to straighten the covers and secure them better. I consider this thought for a moment, envisioning breaking the ice into sharp shards and throwing them onto the patio below to melt in the sun. My ears can already hear the glass-shattering sound as the ice hits the stones. Relieving the furniture covers of their icy torment and replacing them properly onto the furniture, securing them from the wind and more snow would save the furniture from winter damage. Again, I consider these thoughts.

I open the door and step onto the deck and look around. Snow is everywhere. It is cold—so very cold. My fingers and cheeks are already turning a bright pink. It is cold. I open the door and step back inside. It is warm.

Maybe another day.



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