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.

I wanted to be alone, locked into my own world, so as usual, I had my iPod plugged in. I hit random, and shoveled along to everything from Justin Timberlake to Roy Orbison to Patty Griffin, Regina Spektor, Michael Jackson, and The Shins.

I must admit, there was a moment when I felt deeply resentful, incredibly aware that I was a single woman trying to do the work alone. Yves came into my mind then, and for a moment, I was so angry at him for dying on me. He should have been out there helping me.

There was ice coating the driveway underneath the snow, and I hit at it with the metal edge of the shovel. I hit the ice so hard that I felt the impact reverberate up through my arms, my upper back, my neck. As the ice sheet broke up into dinner-plate size pieces, I launched them, using the shovel as a catapult.

I don't know what the music was then. Something loud and angry and fast, keeping pace with me as I took out my rage on the Sisyphean expanse before me.

I swear this is true, what I am about to tell you. I forgot that the song from the funeral, the one Franco had sang in honour of what had transpired that night, was on the iPod. I'm not sure what I would have done if I had remembered beforehand, but as I heard the opening bars to "Angel," I thought of hitting the button, forwarding to the next song, returning to my mood. Instead, I let myself listen.

I closed my eyes, and I pictured the two of us, throwing snow at one another, pushing each other down in the snowbanks, making snow angels. As I shoveled, and listened, and felt the tears come to my eyes, I felt warmed, as if someone had come up behind me and enveloped me in his arms. I could feel the scratchiness of his beard up against my ear, and the way he would have stooped so that he could curve his chest into my back. I felt the pressure of his arms around my waist, could tell that he was smiling.

So I stopped what I was doing and just felt it. Felt him.

I started to laugh. I could see us, frisking about, shouting wildly, laughing as we attempted to run in snow that was up to the top of my thighs. The snow would have been icy that would have worked its way under my hat, my scarf, under my coat.

We would have made quite a sight, two adults playing puppy-like in the snow.