Winter, I Miss You

July 19, 2022

Dear Winter,

I miss you. I miss your cool, your calm, your collectedness. Let me explain.

2022 is, so far, known as the year I had my ass handed to me in the flower field. It began with a battle against La Nina and the voles (properly referred to as Volemageddon). It continued with the purchasing of a property that was way wetter than anticipated, forcing the plan to change. It’s currently unfolding in the haphazard form of two flower farms, waist-high weeds, unforgiving drought, seasonal tendonitis of the fingers and wrists, and everything that comes with the floral design of 40 events this season.

Summer 2022 is a hole leading straight into the depths of hell and I’m hanging onto the edge with a pinky finger.

Dramatic? Perhaps. You give it all a whirl and let me know how it goes for you.

But Winter, I dream of you fondly, and often.

I dream of waking up early with hot coffee and reading a book downstairs on the couch before sunrise, not rolling my half broken, unfed body off the bed to harvest the farm on Monday morning.

I dream of rose-scented body oil after a hot shower, not applied due to painful rashes up and down my arms, but because I have time to feel soft and beautiful.

I dream of socks at the end of the day that are not sopping wet and caked in mud, but are warm, soft and fuzzy, keeping my toes warm.

I dream of warm skin, not because my lower back is sunburned to shit from bending over for hours on end, but because it’s February and I’m in Mexico.

I dream of breathing cool, crisp air with zero bugs flying up my nostrils or into my mouth.

I dream of driving anywhere without furry black jumping spiders coming at me out of the dashboard.

I dream of not losing sleep over whether it’s going to rain.

I dream of having energy to do anything, including carrying a conversation with a friend.

I dream of free time, during which if I choose to do nothing with it, I won’t feel guilt.

I dream of no japanese beetles to cut in half.

Winter, if you came early this year I wouldn’t mind.

peace, love & the most wonderful time of year,

Fran Parrish, tired flower farmer