I don’t miss the seasons. But it’s not a temperature thing. When I was back in New York for the holidays I experienced the 5-degree weather, the wind-chill—the moisture on my mustache turning icy, as I shambled into the wind without proper head-and-ear gear. But I didn’t hate it.
In Los Angeles (where I’m typing this) my bedroom window is open to the contradiction between the month of January and a temperature of 77 degrees. What was often a nice thought on a cold day in New York—here, is real. The degrees of Fahrenheit are no fluke. And I can look forward to these temperatures for weeks to come.
What I can also look forward to is not being reminded of death. Such are the seasons. Cold winds make the young walk like the old. And for the old, the wintry blasts drive the point home: “Stay indoors, complain, and wait…”
You can have the seasons, those of you who want them. I’ll take the sun and the illusion: that somewhere else, someone else is doing all the dying.