a winter’s day.
It has been cold. Quite cold. Perpetually cold.
And snowing. Every few days, it snows again — just a few inches or a foot deep, nothing serious. But it’s piling atop the other snow and on the trees. Branches are snapping. Roofs are collapsing. Small children disappear into drifts and are never heard from again. Mittens and scarves litter the roadways.
And this northern city shuts down in the snow. It’s a poor area. They have the infastructure (but not the money!) to clear roads, so even an inch of wet on the road leads to car wrecks and death.
Last year, I was shut indoors and alone for two weeks while the snow built up outside. Everything ran out — books, food, toilet paper, patience — everything but snow. It was harmful.
This year we’re moving — again — and the boxes are piling up like snow. I’ve packed away everything. That famine-feeling is settling in and the ice is building on the windows. It is not good.
I am unpacking a box and getting out a mitten and finishing it. This is my last project to be done in this house. Then we’re leaving — no more snow, no more ice-storms, no more fires, please?
Just two woolen mittens and a pair of warm hands.