Farch

As the concrete fist that holds me in its wintry grip loosens gently this week with icicles dripping and trickling streams of dirty water flowing beneath the icebergs at the end of the driveway, my thoughts wander dangerously toward warm weather destinations. Above freezing at this time of year is but a cruel tease, unlikely to stay mild for very long before latitude pulls the rug out from under my fantasies with a late winter blast of some sort.  For months, even on sunny days there is no melt here.  This drip on my eave is the drip of hope, of life.  The drips that will wash away my seasonal depression if I can only hold on.

As we always do, and to our psychological detriment I might add, Chip and I let our thoughts wander toward last minute spring-breakish-type plans that once uttered we realize heartbreakingly are just fool's gold.  We see them in the water, we pan them and they do look real until we take 'em into town.

Softball practice like many spring sports works out over spring break leaving us three paltry days to play with at the end of the week. I hop on Google Maps, as if I don’t know how far away things are (maybe there’s a little island I don’t know about near Indianapolis) to find a driving destination for three days that might be warmer than here.

"Kentucky!" I say hopefully.
Chip says, “Great. We can leave Wednesday night after her practice and we have to be back Sunday.”

Forget it. It’s a 9 hour drive. Two days driving and two days playing isn’t quite the ratio I’m looking for, especially when said destination had snow yesterday. Punta Cana for two days, yes. Lexington for two days, no. I have long known there was no spring break for us this year and yet I let myself become childishly vulnerable to the notion with this thaw, a rookie mistake. Now I’m just really pissed off, also in a childish way that involves swearing, being mean to puppies and stomping my foot.

Like the ice in my heart.

I’ve stolen a word from a few teachers I know who are also hitting the wall this time of year…and that word is Farch. It’s a little bit February, a little bit March and a little bit of another word that starts with F. Landlocked Midwestern Hell. I ponder Chicago and Lake Michigan and even Lake Superior for a mini-break as the English call it. A half day’s drive. I’m neither enthused nor amused by Farch.  Chip wants to send me away, probably like Ted Hughes wanted Sylvia to have a break.

Me and the tree reach for the sun