My husband has a little trick he can do. It’s not as useful as you might think, but the way Benjamin describes it makes me jealous.
“Imagine it’s a freezing winter day,” he’ll say. “Maybe you’re at the bus stop, standing there shivering.
Wouldn’t it be nice if you could sort of… push *up,* and *forward,* and for a second find yourself standing in the same spot, only it’s next summer?”
“Sounds nice,” I always tell him.
“It’s glorious. No waiting for the seasons to change, so it’s like jumping from a cold shower into a hot bath.”
See? Neat trick, but not very useful. He can only jump forward by six months, when we’re on the opposite side of the sun.
Benjamin says it’s like being the only person on a seesaw—you can push up, but you come down almost immediately.
He can stay “up” for only a few moments, just long enough to enjoy the temperature.
This afternoon, I was pouring him a glass of lemonade when I heard the lawnmower stop. I could guess what he was doing.
After “seesawing” he probably wouldn’t need a lemonade break, but I carried it to the backyard anyway.
“Hey snowman, want a drink before you melt?”
I figured we were in for a blizzard next winter—Ben was coated. He stopped brushing snow off his shoulders and turned to me.
“It was everywhere. Knee deep, as far as I could see.“
The snow had smeared his t-shirt, leaving gray streaks where his fingers had wiped. As I approached, some of it drifted like dust and clung to the lemonade glass.