It’s only the ninth of January. It’s way too early to be feeling this way, but it’s been building for weeks. Each minor annoyance just grows. It’s the white film covering the roads, the sidewalks, and every inch of my car making it impossible to see out of the windshield. It’s either the painfully frigid outdoor air or the dry heat from the furnace that keeps giving me nosebleeds. It’s the static in my hair and clothing and the sparks when I pet my dogs or adjust my covers in bed at night. It’s the draft from my old windows at home that make my house so cold at night even though the thermostat is set at 78. It’s the fact that I’m huddled under a blanket at my couch at seven in the evening because it’s already pitch black outside and though I know that it’s early, I feel lethargic. It’s the toes and fingers that are always cold, distractingly so, making me reluctant to even get off of the couch and make dinner or a warm mug of tea. It’s the numbingly cold linoleum of my kitchen floor. It’s the dry, flaky, and maddeningly itchy skin on my calves, feet, and arms driving me insane.

These are just the little things that gnaw at my consciousness. Bigger monsters lurk in my closet and under my bed. These are the loneliness and the quiet, when all I can hear are the rattling of the window panes at night and the muffled voices coming from the television. It seems that the whole world is hiding from the winter, and even the sound of the telephone ringing startles me. Even the dogs are still. I’m longing for warmth and company.

I felt this way last year, only I seem to have missed last summer. The weather was sulky and rainy for months, cool. There were a few beautiful weeks, but I worked for a majority of July and August, so I missed them. Now I’m longing for the summer months like those before I moved in with Sam, before I had a real job, a home to take care of, children to entertain. Of course, now they’re all gone (except the job, of course) and yet I seem to be living the same life, only edited of all happiness.

I think I could survive until May if I had one day, just one, like the ones that I am missing.

I wouldn’t work, of course, and I’d start the day by walking the dogs at dawn. Then I’d saddle up my beautiful mountain bike with water and Gatorade and head to the old towpath in the valley along the Ohio and Erie Canal and the Cuyahoga River. The 20, 40, even 60 miles that I’d ride would be beautiful early in the morning, before too many dog-walkers, joggers, and hard-core cyclists hit the trails.

The ride is amazing once the canal pulls away from Canal Road about five miles south of the start and disappears into the National Park. Along the way are amazing views of the river, historic houses, random glimpses of farmland, an abandoned paper mill, the ski slopes out of the valley, green and deserted in the summer, working locks in the canal, and the dry locks no longer filled with water, with thick stone walls that are perfect for climbing and sitting, legs dangling tens of feet about the canal-bed, reading or thinking, or resting.

Then there’s the wildlife. The occasional mink, muskrat, or beaver swimming in the canal, head and beady little eyes visible. There’ll be a whitetail somewhere along the way, drinking from the river, then a blue heron or a crane, always a crane. Mallards will be swimming two by two in the canal, one bright green headed bird next to a dull brown one. Then the best part, when the ducks dive for food and two little ducky webs stick out of the water, flailing and grabbing at the sky. Then there are the geese of course, little bastards, hissing and threatening as you pass, refusing to move.

The ride home is always tougher. Riding north there can be a nasty headwind from the lake miles away, and the sound of the wind and the crunching of the gravel has lost some of its rosy glow. By the time I’d make it home and climb off the bike I’d stumble once, maybe twice. The fibers in my legs will be twitching uncontrollably.

After a cool shower I could drive somewhere, anywhere, with the windows down and the radio up. I could call friends for a barbeque. We’d eat rare steaks and fried potatoes with fresh onions and green peppers, corn on the cob and cold, sweet grapes and strawberries. At night there would be the crackle of a bonfire, the smell of smoke and fresh mown lawns. And always, always, there will be the snap of beer cans and bottles opening, and there will be laughter and light.

That’s the day I’m yearning for.