They say the snow will wreak havoc with the city. It will come while we are sleeping and bury the streets in immobility. I putter around the apartment in oblivion, hanging evergreen wreaths and trilling carols at the walls. That heavy, wet blanket of despair lifted and all that is left behind is fresh air in my lungs and silly giggles at the mouths of babes. I walked home last night and the white snow lit the church at the end of the street, moonlight glittering off the side of the steeple, the air silent with winter. My inner cynic rails in confusion.
I'm packing a bag, now. Summer dresses, canvas shoes, things I will not miss for a few months, I'll send them with my father when he returns west next week. I am packing a bag. I am emptying a home.
The fever grips me. I laugh.
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