What I’ve always resisted about winter, beyond the bone-chilling cold, is how the city seems to shrink into itself. Between its barren Maples and empty terraces, there’s little sign of life. Without foliage to blanket the grey, Toronto is very concrete. The cold hurries us into our homes, and neighbours rarely stop to say hello. There are no kids on bikes, or elderly Italian ladies nattering on porches. All is quiet. All is still. And yet this year, there’s something in Winter’s repose that feels fitting. Perhaps, we’re all acclimating to the quiet, to not making plans, and to spending long hours in our homes. There is a time for everything. And winter is when we rest. It may have taken a pandemic to help me appreciate that.