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Lisa

Years ago, I read an essay written by Maile Meloy, a writer who grew up in Montana but now finds herself living in Los Angeles. “I still have the… idea that you must survive winter to earn your summer.” When people ask me why I didn’t fall in love with Los Angeles, I always quote that line of hers.

I lived in LA from September through December and then ran back to New York City in January after the tree at Rockefeller center and the Christmas windows at Macy’s had been disassembled. That particular January was so cold that by its final week all three of my roommates took off in search of reprieve. The day after they left, New York had the worst snowstorm of the year. Schools were closed. Cars buried. I was delighted.

Maybe I over romanticize that week because of the people I spent it with. My roommate’s boyfriend was studying for the bar exam. Since his apartment was, well, inhabited by a bunch of men who didn’t believe in Clorox, he’d come over to ours and study during the day. Boyfriend 6.0 was self-employed and I was job hunting, so the three of us spent the days together, working away in different corners of the living room. In the evenings, I’d cook dinner as they’d serenade me with their voices and guitars. Roommate’s boyfriend always helped with the dishes and, no matter where the conversation started, he always ended up talking about my roommate and how wonderful she was. When she returned from her trip, I was determined to see that she marry this Levi Smylie guy.

My mother called me the other day and told me that she’s wearing gloves. “We’ll be up at the cottage in a couple of weeks to rake all the leaves.” It’s our family tradition to make the drive north and spend the day raking. There are so many trees that we usually need to make 2 separate trips—one early in the fall and one late—to finish the job. My assignment is to drive the four-wheeler to the dumping spot and unload all the leaves. I love my job. I make a huge wall and then I surf down it when I’m done.

I live in Phoenix now. Tagg’s work has taken us here. Though I’m happy to be close to his family, nothing makes me more homesick than the weather forecast. I don’t have to rake or shovel or scrape. My shoes stay oddly perfect—no slush, no salt. I find myself lusting after tweed coats the way I used to lust after spring dresses in April. To use Ms. Meloy’s words again, “time [feels] suspended.”

One of my California friends always teases me, “You’d better get used to this kind of perfection, Lisa. There won’t be any permafrost in heaven.”

“Progress,” I retort. “There’s going to be progress.”

And though I don’t know what it’ll be like, I imagine it’ll feel similar to moving through different seasons.