02/31 - I think we're like fire and water, I think we're like the wind and sea.
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In eastern North Carolina, March is a confused thing.
Once, we went hiking to some waterfalls. It was chilly enough for long sleeves, mild enough to regret them after ten minutes. We went half an hour out of our way to find restrooms, only then they were closed and I finally ducked into some bushes, shouting, "DO YOU HEAR RUSTLING I THINK SOMEONE'S COMING IS SOMEONE COMING," the whole time. We found our way to the entrance from the Blue Ridge Parkway and there was a little shop, only the little shop was closed and there was no one in sight because that part of the Blue Ridge was shut for the winter. It was like being somewhere abandoned. I couldn't actually picture it with people there.
It was colder, the day before. We climbed a trail winding steeply up through woods, maybe it wasn't even meant for humans, maybe it was left by animals. Roots crisscrossed our path under a blanket of last autumn's leaves and everything was dull, dry, brown, until we reached the top of this little mountain, a little mountain in the midst of a hundred other little mountains, and a wooden fence stopped us from rolling down the other side. The wind was blowing a dull ache into my ears and it was the only thing to hear, the wind and all those bare branches and the leaves crunching under our feet, long undisturbed and smelling like some forgotten fall. I carved our initials into the fence, hidden away in the middle of a wooded nowhere deep in the Appalachians, and then we walked back down our little mountain to the car. We'd never find it again if we tried.
Two days later, there was an ice storm and we listened to pellets pinging on the old roof of our cabin all night. When it finally stopped in the early morning hours, the only sound in the world was the water from the creek behind the cottage rushing away under a frozen surface.
We let the road thaw until the next evening and then drove through the nearby countryside, stopping for wild turkeys to cross the road. The melting ice made us cocky and we decided to play on the railroad tracks beside a defunct-looking post office that was still in operation, only the cold coming off all that metal and the setting sun chased us back to the car after a few minutes.
Two days later, we took an interstate drive for hours with the windows down.
Sometimes, it just rains. The day we went to the beach, it rained. Started out sunny, then a mist crept in over the ocean, over us as we drove east to meet it. We walked the slippery Rocks at Kure Beach until my Chucks lost their footing and I decided I didn't want to slip and fall into the sea. Amanté chased some birds in the drizzle. We settled for the park, playing on the swingset as the overcast day turned to night. He kicked massive pinecones around, astonished by their size, then we went downtown for a muggy dinner, but there was no more rain.
Other days, it's that wintry kind of sunny that tricks you into thinking it's warm outside. You bundle up because your phone says it's freezing out, but you don't really believe it until you take that first breath and it freezes in your lungs.
Those confused March days are coming again soon. We'll spend a week rubbing hands in the car to keep warm or opening the windows while we cook dinner, wandering through a museum as a surprise thunderstorm makes the heat outside even thicker or walking a foggy beach, driving to the store in a late-night downpour or navigating unfamiliar streets under a frozen early-morning sun. Together.