Waiting
Looking outside it’s as if the world has its arms folded, tapping its foot and checking its watch, “Any day now.” The trees are leafless. The grass is desiccate brown. Hibernators have gone to their shelters. Year-rounders brace themselves. The air is cold, the mountains restless, the sky a dingy gray. The sun? Ha! Nothing more than a dim orange smudge o’er the southern mountains this time of year, where it makes it o’er the mountains. And where it doesn’t, or it’s cloudy — Fuggetaboutit. Around the neighborhood tarpaulins cover boats and trailers and other summertime conveyances. Anchorage denizens lumber about, hooded, gloved, booted. Waiting. Every body and every thing, it seems, is waiting.
Overheard banter in the elevator: “I heard snow by Friday.” “Nah, they’ve been saying that for over two weeks now.” A hearty, mocking laughter goes up. These are the skeptics. For them forecasters are no more than witless soothsayers. Very often the skeptics are correct and so it justifies their philosophical swagger. The laughter has not died when the doors open on floor seven. The three who board wonder what they missed, sorry they did. Lightness and laughter are summer’s expressions, winter demands its solemn reflection. You take your relief where you find it this time of year. The doors close and the elevator continues its descent. Near floor two someone offers the culprit may be global warming. Ding: Lobby. Some shrug, gather themselves and exit. The shrug says it all. These are the conformists. They want to be on the right side of consensus, of course they do, but unlike the guffawing skeptic most prefer to remain quiet about it, just in case.