It was 24 degrees the morning I wrote this, the sky a gunmetal gray tinged with ragged ribbons of nearly black clouds. The flags on the Long Pier flagpoles were fluttering straight out toward the south, and the surface of the water was a grim tungsten.
Rabia and I made our way toward the bench where we sit, provoking a squadron of ducks we had not seen in their shelter beneath the bank, to yell at us as they flew off.
We sat there not talking to each other. (No, I don’t think she talks to me but I do talk to her sometimes.) We had been waiting for winter and this was almost it — but not quite. A little snow was expected in the days ahead, but so were a few days of nearly 50 degrees. Sitting there, taking in the fierceness of Mother Nature surrounding us juxtaposed with the weakness of our winter so........