#canadian winter

Haley could never, would never ‘warm up’ to the idealistic Canadian winter. Sure, even she could admit that the first snowfall had its charm; that with wistful flurries came nostalgia, and often some cinematic romanticism: the ‘meet-cute’, the long-awaited kiss, the sound of children’s muffled screaming and slushing. This is all very appealing, at first. However, like most things, the mysticism and allure quickly dulls to reveal a less-white, largely grey landscape that is far less enchanting.

Haley knew better. She anticipated the fall-out, the inevitable descent into melancholy, into the paradoxical state of mind requiring both hibernation and a remedy for stir-craziness. For most, the solution is copious amounts of discounted liquor - the LCBO being integral to this cycle, mercifully overstocking their spirits during Christmas and New Years. For most, the opinion is that a ‘true Canadian’ actually takes pleasure from this two- sometimes three-month period, or, at the very least, has the wherewithal to survive.

Every year Haley questioned whether she’d be warm enough, whether the cold would ever leave her muscles, her bones, her blood. She’d become disoriented, unable to distinguish blue skies from grey, her sunny self from her winter self.