the between.

It is most accurate to break our southern Ontario seasons in to sundress wearing and wrapped in wool. There is little in between weather.

Summer is elusive. Spring virtually nonexistent. May in general disappoints then June slumps in damp and chilly. Towards July you wake up one morning to swarms of mosquitos and a blazing sun. I won’t complain. It is never hot enough for long enough for me. My southern Illinois blood is still a decoction of silt and condensed heat. 

Fall sneaks in at night when you haven’t yet dug out the duvets. In the wee hours I find myself tucking children up in extra blankets dug out of chests, closing windows and slipping on mismatched socks. 

We are in the between. Starting the mornings with me confiscating winter coats to the afternoons of me confiscating swimwear. The sun while warm is a trickster covering for the air. Like that pocket of arctic water maurading around the warm lake. It will grow till that is all there is. 


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