Every winter, when the Arctic belches a cruel blast over our land, the storm windows in our bathroom frost over. Crazy crystals grow in waving, looping patterns, blocking the view outside. In summer, salesmen come door-to-door offering window replacement, but I’ve seen enough fancy, modern windows with broken seals to know they’re no better at keeping out the cold than the old ones in our 1939 home. Plus, they couldn’t put on this display. Last week, a kid came to the door suggesting our roof had hail damage from last summer’s storms. He was practically aggressive in his certainty, eager to shame me for not taking better care of our home. Another salesmen once said a soaking of the yard with his chemicals would rid our home of all the cobwebs strung from railing to eave by August. It never occurred to me the cobwebs were unsightly.

It was 15 below zero last week this time. Today it’s 62. The weather is only banal to idiots. Lately my seven-year-old son has been watching a PBS show called Eons. They’re short episodes and the science is usually baffling, but we watch it in a reverence, placing ourselves humbly in the course of the universe, admiring the scientists describing our working hypotheses with eloquence and love. It’s the opposite of the news cycle, opposite of the business pages, opposite of the tacky entertainers. It’s god, man.