Blizzard

Snow is change made visible.

Inside it is me and Bach, six cello suites and Ms. Woolf's diary. Outside it is a gust, a showy snow. God's effort, I think sometimes, to erase and start over. The early snow delineates--outlines all the roofs and trees and sidewalk cracks that otherwise you'd never notice. It's a reminder for later, so that tomorrow things can be put back where they belong.

The later snow obliterates. A car is a curb is a stairwell is a storefront. Everything gets mounded and fat in this new strange noncolor. The mailboxes become the garbage cans. The garbage cans become the bushes. All of it huddles together for a few hours, indistinguishable, held still and blinking.

Today and tomorrow are days to rest.

I'll stay here and wish I knew how to play the cello. Day one: there's a story to write about a friend of mine, and then ten toes to paint and paint again if I want. (There's enough time for red and fuschia.)

Day two gets itchy. Gets to be, What's in my closet? and discovering that single can of coconut milk waaay in the back of the pantry. I'll sit in not-the-usual chairs and cut apart old conversations. I'll call everyone.

Right now, though, it is just Day One: The Beginning. And I'm warm and couch-happy, looking out at the early part.

Noticing.

And thankful.