not too cold to snow, yet

It’s a snowy night. It’s not the graceful, silent kind of snow, however. It’s the noisy kind. The icy, slushy, wet, loud snow. Since I haven’t really experienced snow much in the past five years or so, I find it, sometimes, beautiful and endearing. I find it, alternatively, cold and annoying. I love the sight of it, big wet flakes tumbling past my window. I love the idea of it, the feeling of being inside when I know that it’s out there. And then, I hate the bundling it expects of me: the scarf, the gloves, the hat, the bulky coat, the umbrella to fend off the wet. I feel puffy from too much wool and warmth and when I am out there, I bristle at the flakes hitting my face, the instant numbness in my fingers. I remember that winter hasn’t even started yet; that this is nothing; that there’s barely half an inch accumulation out there; that the temperature drops much, much lower.
“Just wait until it is too cold to snow,” a fellow student said to a classmate of mine who is from L.A.
“I don’t know what that means, too cold to snow,” L.A. girl said.
It’s marvelous to come from a place that doesn’t concern itself with such things. I’ve been in California long enough, but I grew up in the east. I remember what it’s like when it’s too cold to snow.
Tonight I went to the graduate reading series. It’s only the second one I have been to this semester. I enjoyed this one much more than I did the first one. Tonight was really the first time I have felt as though I was bonding with people in my program. I mean, I’ve gotten together with people periodically, been out with my classmates. But I haven’t felt comfortable until tonight. I am, actually, just starting to feel comfortable in the program itself. I’ve spent all this time adjusting to being in Boston, being without B. half the time, being in school again… and I am just starting to feel a part of it all. I still feel too old for my classmates, but it’s starting to matter less. The readings were good too, some of them quite funny. I like to hear the poets, because poetry is so foreign to me. I like it, and I think I would like writing it, but I don’t know anything about it. I don’t know what a couplet is, or what makes a sonnet a sonnet. Poems, to me, are simply words strung together in a pleasing fashion. The poems I heard tonight inspired me, because the words strung together were lovely, sometimes careful, sometimes raw, sometimes funny.


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