Snow and ice. Ice and snow. It’s January in Alberta, what do you expect? By this time the snow isn’t pretty anymore. It’s filled with rocks and sand and ice melt. The ice on the sidewalks prevents safe walking.
This is my thirty-third winter in Alberta. I’m tired.
As a kid, growing up on the southern most end of Vancouver Island, snow was magic. It came rarely, maybe once a year and lasted for a couple of days. There were only a few hours to enjoy it. And enjoy it we did. It was perfect snow. Not too cold out, the snow soft and wet enough to make snow men and snowballs. None of us had snow gear. Our boots were rain boots. Our home made mittens would get wet. Our sleds were pieces of cardboard.
But it was glorious. And I wished I lived in a place that had four seasons. My mother, coming from Thunder Bay Ontario, didn’t like the snow. I thought she was crazy. Not like snow? How could that be? But she remembers cold days where it hurt your throat to talk.
I’m on her side now. Snow here lasts forever. Our summers are so short you don’t get to see them.
But it’s not just the snow I’m tired of. I’m tired of my rut. The one I can’t get out of no matter how hard I try.
I know I’m supposed to go back to the island. But I’m here, because my daughter's life is here and my life is not my own yet. I can’t give her the dance lessons or the studio she so loves. She has possibilities here, right now. I am merely chasing dreams.
Which will be fine to chase when there’s no one else that has to be involved.
I have the goal.
Still the waiting is hard. Especially in January, on a cold day after Christmas.
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