Saturday we wandered around D.C.’s Eastern Market, sun burning the back of our necks and heat radiating up from the asphalt. We took refuge in the narrow spaces between overcrowded shelves in a small bookstore, but the air conditioning was weak and we were still hot when we wandered out again.
Sunday was gray, and raining, and chilly when we left the city; and the roads rose up and the trees moved closer and by the time were were home, the exhaust from the cars around us hung white in the cold air.
I checked the forecast and cried when I read it, hated Pennsylvania and the meteorologists calling for winter storms and inches of snow in the last full week of April. He looked confused when he found me crying by my six broccoli plants and tried not to say ‘I told you so’ and looked for bins to cover the plants we both know he’d be happier without.
And today I walked to work as a cold, wet snow fell on my shoulders and head and the slush squelched from beneath my feet and when the wind blew, branches with sad, limp leaves shifted and dumped heavy chunks of snow down on me.
I hurried. Saturday’s sun seemed like another life.
It’s not snowing as much as they called for and it’s melting even as it falls, snow just barely on this side of rain and temperatures hovering around freezing. They keep downgrading the number of inches we should expect, and it ends tomorrow, though we won’t see warm temperatures again all week.
But my peas and lettuce and spinach and onions haven’t sprouted yet and the ground isn’t freezing and I hope the broccoli will be OK, since we’ve kept the snow off of them.
But that will teach me to plant a spring garden.