las antologías

 

First incident:

I step outside and feel the warmth,

So sublime on my dry winter skin.  

I roll down the windows of my car and imagine myself driving downtown blasting music with windswept hair. And it feels so good to not worry about the layers upon layers I would have had to wear. It feels marvelous not having to protect my head, hands, neck, torso, legs, and feet of the harsh wind. I think to myself, “I am happy and I am happy because it is finally warm out.” 

But it shouldn’t be. 

I know it shouldn’t be and this fleeting thought smashes my joy. It is mid-February and it’s 70 degrees outside. Something is not right. I should currently be grumbling words as I struggle to trudge through the snow. Cursing the weather and hoping for a hint of sunlight.

This is not normal.

 

I see people walk in flip-flops wearing “summer” dresses as they enjoy their dripping ice creams. And for a lucrative moment, I wish it were cold. I wish for a sense of normalcy. 

 

 

Every morning I watch the local weather. And a phenomenon has been occurring all too quickly. “Another beautiful day in the D.C. metro area…” the weatherman/woman reports, but what is the beast behind the beauty? 

Second incident: Just yesterday on my trajectory to work, my dad and I were speaking about an incident he saw earlier in the day. A massive flock of geese was returning to D.C. to lay their eggs for the year (side note: my dad gets very excited about migratory birds). And although he loved the sight, he mentioned, with a slightly concerned expression, how off this was. It was too early in the year for the geese to return. They were confused by the warmth and the change in climate patterns. Their migratory patterns had changed. 

Third incident: Cherry blossoms. Annually, D.C.’s renowned cherry blossoms attract thousands of tourists to admire their blushing delicate flowers and capture their dazzling display of rosy flowers. The cherry blossoms were a gift by the Japanese to solidify relations between both nations. A festival accompanies the array of trees to remember the relationship. That being said, the festival takes place on a usually chilly March weekend, towards the end of the month. But many of the trees are almost reaching full bloom now. 

The trees and the birds who follow ancient patterns of the earth are disoriented. Their compass is being wildly disrupted by us.

And it’s frightening to see subtle changes that rapidly become more prevalent.

I wonder, with such a warm early coming “spring,” how will this summer be?