![]() ![]() While my mom went off to her shop to do inventory or payroll or ordering (because God forbid she take a day off), my dad would switch his computer off and join me outside to build an igloo or sled run or snowman. When I was little, snow days like this meant pulling on my boots and snowsuit and heading out into the white freedom. ![]() ![]() Or just enjoy it without worrying about anything else. I almost wish it was, so I could pull my covers tight around me and sleep through the day. Now, in the calm of the morning, it feels like everything could’ve been a dream-the scholarship, the envelope with her name on it, and the journal inside. That’s how Shakespeare would’ve written it, anyway. I took it as a sign that I’d somehow disturbed the balance of nature when I opened up that envelope. At some point the wind kicked up and the few flakes outside swirled together and multiplied until they became a solid wall of white that blasted my windows for what felt like hours. Julianna’s words and my own guilt over reading them had run endless circles through my mind all night, keeping me floating in that strange, fitful space between sleep and consciousness. I lie in the quiet dark of my room, relieved I don’t have to get up anytime soon. It means last night’s storm brought too much snow, too fast for the plows to have the roads cleared in time for the buses this morning. When the phone rings before six a.m., I know there’s no chance I’ll be driving out to Summit Lake. “On the Heart’s Beginning to Cloud the Mind” ![]()
0 Comments
Leave a Reply. |