It is snowing as I write this. It is not the first snow of the season–that came after Thanksgiving, falling after midnight in a powdery coating that lingered for days, even through warmth and sunlight that should have sent it away. It is the first snowfall that happened during what could generously be called daylight hours, though. A light, gentle dusting that will stick mostly to the snow left over from a week ago as the brined, salted, sanded, or grit-covered roads force whatever lands there to vanish swiftly. There will be more snow, soon, at least according to the forecast, and we have reached the time of year where it will likely stick until we get another mid-winter heatwave of temperatures in the fifties [which has already happened]. Snow in a brown winter can be a deceptive thing, lingering longer than you would think as the regional draughts isolate it so long that it has no choice for survival but to hide in unseen corners and mix with dirt until the muddy slush it becomes is finally melted down by the weight of its disguise. It can last weeks, maybe even months if its cold enough, but people who desire some semblance of the frosted winters they recall from years past will often seek it out and, like a flower plucked for a vase, bring a swift end to something that might have lived longer on its own.

As I watch the snow fall, attention drifting from the infringing darkness outside the window, the words I’m writing on this still too-empty page, and the work I’m supposed to be doing, I find myself feeling for that snow. I can see a patch of it from where I sit, tucked away in a corner that will never get direct sunlight but that is too close to the common human footpaths to survive very long. It has only been a week of mostly miserable cold and this spot is already threadbare, showing the faint hints of washed out greenish grass poking through the bootprints and scoop marks where even this small square was not spared from people taking a moment to delight in the small personal joy of fresh snow. It was there to be experienced by whoever passed by and while it could have been left to be appreciated for an unknown number of weeks, it was quickly brought to its current dwindling state as enthusiasm overrode consideration and joyful glee overrode most of humanity’s desire to not have a cold snowball wallop them in the back of their head. I cannot bring me to blame whoever disturbed this little patch of snow, the last remaining spot of white on a sad stretch of lawn, but I do wish they hadn’t.

Winter always reminds me that there are a lot of things I wish were true, even if I can understand and even sympathize with the reasons they aren’t. Scarves and hats dot necks and heads as clouded breath scoots out in front of every walker I see. People are embracing the need to dress appropriately for the bitter cold wind and the grey, cloudy skies, but I have slowly become the only person wearing a mask indoors. If I choose to walk from my car to my office’s door in nothing but shorts and a t-shirt, I am ignored. If I choose to walk from my office’s door to my desk in a mask, I catch hidden glances, eye rolls, and even scowls as I pass people who’d rather risk it all than insignificantly inconvenience themselves. I don’t want to wear a mask. I’m tired of the looks, of repeating myself because people can’t hear if they can’t see your mouth, of bathing in my own sweat, of the smell of my lunch lingering after my meals, of the dull ache around my ears after a long day of trying to find a comfortable position for the straps to sit that still holds it tightly to my face. I understand why people wouldn’t want to wear one. But I also think it isn’t worth the risk to go without it. Like a child bundled up against the cold–heavy coat, hat, mittens, scarf, and snowpants–I think it’s better to be overprepared than to suffer the consequences of exposing myself to the elements.

As darkness finally claims the sky, I notice the snow has stopped. It has already begun to melt in the parking lots, the brine doing its job as it melts the snow while the thermometer hovers around the “Freezing” mark. My eyes, joints, and head ache from the fatigue that threatens to send me nodding off to sleep even in this public break room. Today was a special day for reasons beyond it being the first daytime snow. I got my third yearly Covid vaccine booster. It was a simple thing, a process I’ve become immune to after years of catching up on missed vaccines, getting blood work done, and subjecting myself to one of the things I’ve always hated. While never quite afraid of needles, I had enough of them in my childhood to have grown to hate the pinch and chill of being injected or having blood drawn. Even donating plasma in college, twice weekly for a year at least, was not enough to get over my hatred. That was fueled by desperation, after all, a bid for fifty extra bucks a week as I struggled to feed myself rather than ever call on my parents for aid I’d rather die than receive.

This is fueled by caution, or what I would call good sense. It was the decision to wear a hat on a windy but sunny day as the temperature flirted with both sides of freezing. It was the choice to wear a well-wrapped scarf rather than hunch into my coat’s collar with each gust of wind. It was sensible. I embraced these jabs, these draws and injections, because it seemed like the best way to make myself safe in a world that seems to increasingly only care about value. It was the best way I could think of to protect my future in a world that is growing to only consider the present. It was a way to ensure that, even if I wound up catching something from someone that refused to dress for the weater, it wouldn’t be so bad. I still look away when it happens, mostly because I find the thought of something violating my body unpleasant even if I know it is in my best interest and I not only arranged for it but paid for the privilege. I do not dread it now, though. I look forward to it like I look forward to sitting in my warm apartment or office after my long daily walks in the freezing cold. I look forward to it like I look forward to a bracing cup of tea once my body has regulated itself following my walks. It might be uncomfortable like the sweaty minutes between removing my layers and my body cooling down my core as it heats up my limbs, but I know it is good for me and I find myself appreciating it not because it is pleasant or fun, but because it means I’m taking care of myself.