Coda

Goodbye, winter bike commuting. I bid you farewell, much in the way you might to a guest who overstayed his welcome. I am now prompting you to leave. I've yawned a few times and mentioned how late it's gotten and how tomorrow comes early and how there are many things to do before I can wrap up and retire, but winter, to this point, is slow to take the hint. Winter tarries. We can do it again next year, winter. Not soon, but again. I promise.

Winter has not picked up on the subtle cues. Winter is not well-versed in the social arts. Winter is a laggard and unperceptive. The cold lingers. Malingerer. It sees you bundled and figures you wouldn't mind it waiting around a little longer. Winter has no place else to go. It took you so long to get dressed, to put on the boots and the gloves and the hat, and winter figures it would be rude to ask you to slough them again so soon. It's a sunk cost. Gloves fling off faster than they're pulled on. Begrudging tends to slow things down. Just like the cold. 

It's time to pack it up, winter, snow, and cold. Let's change the locks and change our number. Screen the calls and screen the windows. We could even move away. That would be dramatic. The season is late, winter, and I'm asking you to leave. Don't make me call the cops. I'll evict you. I'll file the papers. You're bigger than me but I have the law and a calendar on my side. Or do I? I thought I did. 

I'll miss your quiet. I'll miss your ponderousness and the way you wouldn't leave us alone. It was almost endearing. But it's over now. It's time to make way for spring showers and summer heat. It's time to shed layers. It's time to move along.