Today was one of those days when I inexplicably have Christmas carols stuck in my head: first, “Un Flambeau, Jeanette Isabella”, my favorite despite the fact that I always butcher the French; then “Little Drummer Boy”. The reason can’t be the weather, which has been beautiful these past few days, unseasonably warm and disconcertingly windy. Yesterday, finding myself in the city, I sat in the sculpture garden and watched ice-skaters in T-shirts and tennis skirts glide around a melting rink, skates throwing up plumes of water, reflections bright against the sky. Arriving early at a friend’s, I waited on a back porch and watched the sunset while warm, gusting winds wrought havoc on my hair. Today, devoid of obligations and free of cares, my father and I took a long walk along the C&O Canal, admiring the day.
The strangest thing about this weather, to me, is how the character of the wind changes depending on whether I’m outside or in. There are few things I love more than walking into a strong wind, feeling it blow directly into my face, knowing that my hair is standing out horizontally from my head. But when I’m shielded from the gales all I hear is cruelty, a hard whistling that seems to want nothing more than to rip away the walls and windows between us and blow me away.
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