It Happens

Quick, like summer. Quick, like burning your tongue or falling in love. It happens in an instant. The lights go up across the street and the music on the radio changes and the pigeons fly up in masses, their wings fluttering the wind through your hair; you're unaware. Things become soft and quiet, the soft quiet feeling of a store full of colored yarn, or another comforter on your bed. Windows close and shades are drawn, air becomes quiet, our cheeks become red, we feel softer. Evidence of breath without sound. The city braces itself for it, knows how hard it will be, how slow the trains will become, how school might be let out on days when it wouldn't be in, say, April. We put up an enormous tree near a skating rink so that tourists and children can flock there and say, oh yes, it's that time of year. Yes, we're here. We tuck in around each other, quiet and soft, whispering words and hugging hugs we wouldn't have in, say, April. It happens when we least expect it, the cold entering our bloodstream just as the warmth has settled in.