It has now come to
the time of hanging, stagnant heat.
Approaching mid April, the temperatures are surpassing 90 degrees, but
the air conditioning in our apartment is not yet on. The screen door gapes, all three windows are
open, and two fans spin languidly. Today
is the first day a pleasant breeze has not been blowing. So the heat settles. Mid-afternoon was like a long summer day in
the Midwest; it seemed noise had stopped. The stillness surrounding me was surreal, and
the heat drew me into a restless sleep on my bed, waking only to the phone, a
pierce to the not-quite-summer day.
It is past six o’clock now and the sun still
hangs in the sky like a child refusing bed.
Birds cheep-cheep, children laugh and chase outside, cars rumble down
the road. The world has awakened from
the oppression. It is only early
April.
The heat of the
desert is sometimes agreeable, like being wrapped in a warm blanket with a cup
of hot cocoa. Spending a summer in the
high desert of Utah accustomed me to 85 degree days and
30 degree nights, but a trip to St. George brought back the pleasantries of
home.
“That
thermometer just said it is 108 degrees.
This is stifling.”
“I
love it; it isn’t too hot yet.”
“Let’s
get back into the car and the air conditioning; my feet are sticking to the
asphalt.”
I could not put
into words how the heat made me feel alive again, the sun testing my skin to
see if it still functioned properly.
Somehow, for that moment, I was happily hot. A few days now and I have had enough. But every so often, it feels just right.
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