Everything is white. It’s
making me restless. The snow isn’t melting and sometimes at night it falls in
big pieces and sticks to my hair and clothes and it’s everywhere, fluffy white
everything, and it’s all really beautiful, and it all looks really beautiful,
especially when the sun comes out the next day and you can see that it’s still white
everywhere, pure and natural goodness covering everything. But it’s making me
restless. It must be: the obligatory peacefulness that all white brings.
Unifying the world into one giant entity draped in soft powdery nothing –
hiding everything that individualizes us – your car, your garden, your hands,
your face. Isn’t it lovely, she asks? The scars of the world hidden underneath
a sheet of soft, white snow?
But I like the scars. I like
the rough sidewalks, the uneven concrete, the T loves C scribbled in loud red
graffiti. I like the dying flowers and the neighbor’s children’s shoes scattered
in the front lawn. Now I can’t see anything. It’s just white, and it’s not melting, and I think I like change and I'd like to wake up to something new,
but sometimes the snow and all of its staying power makes me wonder if a thing I should have actually let stay was you.
