personal writing

Black and white softens what is harsh, takes the bite out of a day when the windchill scorches your cheeks, cripples your fingers through the thin shell of the gloves you've put on as you grip the shovel.

Wednesday and Thursday were snow days here. Between about 8 pm Tuesday and 10 am Thursday, we were encased, smothered, in a fine, white powder. No fluffy snowflakes. Not a one to be found. Instead, the snow came down as the grains of sand such as you might find on a Caribbean beach, only icy. Wind chills ripped toward -25F, and the gusts of wind picked up entire hillocks of snow and deposited them against buildings and cars and trees and people, if one was stupid or unfortunate enough to be out in it.

My friend, Angela, and I had ventured out Wednesday afternoon to clear a path through what had fallen then. It was arduous work, and later, both of us were sore. But the snow continued to fall, and when I got up on Thursday morning, it was to the certain knowledge that once again, the snow would have to be cleared.

This is a pile of snow that I made by adding to what was there with what was parallel to it on the driveway. I took a certain pleasure in listening to the thunk of each shovel-full of snow hitting the ancient windows on my house.