Old Man Winter, you are no longer my boyfriend.
Year after year you seduce me with your promise of cozy nights spent by the fire with hot drinks, while you dust the streets, rooftops and trees with silent drops of lace.
There are no “chestnuts roasting on an open fire,” no latkes a-frying. Jack Frost, stop “nipping” at my nose. I have no chimney. I have no fire for you. I’m burnt out.
Admittedly, Summer—my brief, yearly fling—does distract me while he’s in town, but I always return to you, Old Man Winter, I always return—like a fool.
With renewed optimism, I fantasize about you, as the leaves saunter to the ground and the rain pours through Autumn’s clouds. By Thanksgiving, the tunes of “Baby It’s Cold Outside” and “Frosty the Snowman” have special meaning for us, Old Man Winter. I want to sing your name from the rooftops. I want to go sledding in your arms. I dream of sharing romantic kisses under your chilly moonlight. I have fallen in love with you all over again.
In anticipation of your arrival, I fill my home with scents of cinnamon and vanilla; I adorn myself with over-sized, knitted scarves, puffy coats and layers of socks. I make bedroom plans for my absurdly-printed, flannel pajamas.
This February, my love for you got lost in translation—what with “thunder-snow” and “tornado-like winds” casting two feet of snow on my home and car like a snow cage. Is this your way of keeping me captive, Old Man Winter? February is a cold, cold month to wade through your endless, white feet of false promises and cold regret. Old Man Winter, you are like a creepy old letch hitting on every hot young thing at the bar. I have to ask: “Where do you get your nerve?”
I sit in your frozen cage day after day, no matter if I’ve left my snow-packed-home or find myself inching my way down the highways you’ve covered with cold, frozen shame. I have not seen the sun in months. Sun-lamps and Jimmy Buffet songs will not do. We, in the Windy City, lack vitamins. We eat during these dark months…and eat, and eat. But, the holidays are over and we have no excuse. It’s a wonder that my fling, Summer, finds me desirable at all!
Wrapped in your scowling winds thrashing against my faces and hands, I tried shoveling myself free, but to no avail. The ground hog could not even paw his way out to see his shadow this year.
Free me from these frozen chains. Our love is not an Irving Berlin song or a fairytale. Old Man Winter, let my people go.