I have to wear boots for half the year. Not just shoes, but boots. The sort that are thick and insulated and go up nearly to my knee. Sometimes I don’t rightly know why I do it, or how. I think in my head my life’s somewhere like southern Italy, or perhaps Madrid, or Japan, or New Mexico, somewhere hot. Truth be told I love the heat. I can’t get enough of it. Ever since spending a summer in a hot shop with no ventilation it’s not bothered me at all. 
The cold though makes me sore and grumpy and sour and brittle.
As Abby eloquently put it, anywhere nice is too far from family. 
So I blame them for choosing a place like this to settle in instead of somewhere decent. 
How bad did the economy of Italy have to get to justify Canada? Seriously Nono, what were you thinking? We could have eaten fruit from trees and wandered the countryside like wild Indians. 

It’s a perennial sadness. Or maybe it’s a longing.

I have a friend who followed that particular siren to Spain, I think she’s happy. But I’m not totally certain. 

I’ve written before about Winter allowing us to enjoy summer more fully, but more and more I suspect that’s a bunch of Stockholm nonsense. 
Wether or not that’s true, I ought to lean into it, because I’m not going anywhere.
Maybe I just don’t dress warmly enough. 
That’s got to be it.