by Al Drinkle
The leaves in my yard have begun turning yellow. I admired them while tidying up some recent writing on my computer, eventually stumbling across the following document. I must have been somewhat delirious while writing it because I forgot it existed:
It's hard to believe that this could be the same yard, the same neighborhood, the same city. Are these scorching sidewalks the same ones from which I arduously remove snow all winter long? As I laze in the shade, admiring the vibrant verdance of my yard, I’m bewildered by the knowledge that it will be rendered a hyperborean wasteland in the coming months. The dichotomy is almost impossible to process.
The heatwave has been going on for weeks now. Late at night it's still sweltering outside, and punishingly so indoors. The fatigue from both heat exhaustion and countless nights of temperature-related insomnia has rendered me useless. My body aches and as I languidly cross one ankle over the other, I quickly remember the untenability of skin on skin in this oppressive heat. It's impossible to get the wine cold enough, but the Riesling bottles empty quickly as I wait for that moment around 11:30 pm when the air seems to crack and indicate some hint of cooling, if only by a degree or two.
Most summers, we're reminded of our altitude when even the hottest days give way to cool nights and mornings. But this year the heat is dry, heavy and relentless. I've been sleeping outside on my deck, watching the flitting bats who prove ineffective against the armies of mosquitoes. The tiny vampires feast upon me under the torrid sky, adding to my delirium. It's not much cooler than indoors, but at least the heat has movement as opposed to the insulting, throat-clogging palpability of my bedroom air. I dip into pseudo-sleep occasionally, interspersed with irreverent michterations in the yard—the consequence of futile attempts at hydration throughout the day.
Just before dawn breaks, I go inside to drink the tea that I brewed the night before and iced in the fridge. My cats are particularly languorous, dozing on the couch or transfixed by the whirring of the fan. I perfunctorily scoop them their breakfast, only to discover that their dinner has hardly been touched, the heat having eradicated their appetites. It's done the same for me, but I eat some fruit anway, if only to get through my bike ride which I hope to complete before the sun fully rises and renders fitness untenable.
Next, a quick, cold shower before heading to my summer oasis: Metrovino in its air-conditioned glory.
Many places experience 38℃, and the challenges therein are navigated by innumerable people throughout the world. And yet most of these people aren't also subjected to minus 38℃ just a few months later. It's a rare city that's equipped to provide comfort in both these extremes, and a rare human who doesn't suffer in at least one of them.
