Contemplating Dead Sparrows

So, when people ask how we've found the winter here, my usual, and honest, response is, 'not that bad, really.' In fact, we kinda enjoyed the Winter in that special foreigner's cocktail of never-seen-the-white-stuff way, with a twist of hehe-can-you-believe-the-temperature-they'll- never-believe-us-back-home-hehe, a little sprinkling of look-I-can-fall-flat-faced-into-this- snow-bank-and-not-even-get-bruised and maybe just a wee, tiny, insignificant dash of Mmmmm-beer. We were advised by many and warned by more to book a sunshine getaway in March, a fortification of the soul and a sun tanning of the nerves, a necessary thing for all Canadians not interested in the Japanese Romance of suicide or the infernal madness of Cabin Fever. But we relished in the foreignness of our first Winter. We absorbed the romance of snowflakes on eyelashes and hot chocolate (with the little marshmallows on top) after a morning of ice-skating. We spent hours wondering the Winter landscapes of High Park and enjoying the freedom of Children in this country, tobogganing and bouncing unhindered through the powder.
Until yesterday. Until a tease of Spring, like breaking through the surface after a dive into a freezing pond to the warm sun on your face, brought on a buying of Tulips (see previous post) and a cleaning up and packing away of furry Boots; only to be dunked under in the season-pool by that bully, Winter. Suddenly the face burn was no longer fun. Suddenly facing a half hour walk home in the -14C wind-chill felt like a sentencing.
Oh, come on already. Are you kidding me? It's April. For the love of all things budding, bring back the Spring.