day and night

I understand, in theory anyway, why the seasons change and why, over the course of the year, the days get longer and then shorter. The geometry's straightforward. The earth's tilt brings first one hemisphere and then the other closer to the sun and that slight change of position turns winter to spring to summer and shifts where light falls and for how long.

For me, however, that knowledge translates poorly. When I close my eyes, arrange an imaginary earth on its axis and set it in motion, it flips the wrong way, the hemispheres refuse to trade places, the orbit stutters and stops. The problem, I've realized, is that I keep the earth's position constant with respect to the sun. In my mind, the northern hemisphere is always pointing outward, so it's always winter, always dark.

I'd find a world like that unbearable. During winter's short days and long nights, it's not the cold that makes me shiver. Twilight comes too early and I'm awake before it's light. I look up from my work and the city's lights are on. I count the days until the solstice, looking forward to being able to tell myself that each day will be a little longer than the one before. In June, when daylight is stretched to its limit, I do the same thing in reverse and start the slow countdown to winter. I can't imagine living further north, with even longer days and longer nights . One summer, I spent a week on the Isle of Mull. When the sun hadn't fully set by ten, I understood how bleak winter must be.

Because even if I can't picture it, I know how it works. If you can read by daylight until bedtime in June, in December, by early afternoon, you'll be reaching for a light switch. Midnight sun means, at the other end of the year, night at midday. Every hour of light is paid for with an hour of darkness. There's no cheating, no bargaining, no appeals. It's one of the few things in this world that's absolutely fair.