On snow

It's about that time again for the white stuff to reappear and threaten our lives. I lived with the snow for my first twenty-five years or so while I lived in Minnesota. I am no stranger to winter. The fall always barged in sometime during the first week of October, banging the door, wet and cold, sometimes with a few snowflakes in tow. Summer would vanish like a puff of smoke in the wind. It would just be gone, ghosting everyone for the next six months. The snow would eventually come, covering the dead landscape like a white pall, symbol of winter's profound slumber, simulacra of death. Giant snowflakes would gather like a bunch of old gossips at a funeral, involved in circular conversations about the weather that went nowhere, but everyone felt better afterwards, drinking coffee and eating funeral food. Don't underestimate the power of snow to throw you into a ditch, dump you on your ass, or freeze the tips of your ears. The stuff is miserable to move, slippery as hell, and wicked cold, especially if it lands on your head. You can always make a snowman, but you aren't fooling anyone. You're still afraid of death. An errant snowball lands on the back of your neck, but the imp who threw it, is long since gone. Your mittens are wet and cold. Somehow snow has gotten in everywhere and you shiver. Maybe a nice mug of hot chocolate might solve this problem. You flee the snow and go inside. You peel off everything: hat (wet and snowy), mittens (a complete lost cause), winter coat (is that a hole in the sleave?), scarf (smells funny), boots (too tight, too old, maybe a hole somewhere?), snow pants (don't ask), sweater (ugly), and flannel shirt (should have been thrown out at the end of last season). You sit and sip your cocoa. The snow falls, blithely ignorant of how you feel, cold and wet, covering the last of the dead leaves and grass, erasing for all time all of the signs of civilization.