I wake in the middle of the night, radiator straining, street silent, and think immediately only of how to dig my car out of the piles. Later, my morning walk cuts short from trudging through so many blocks of unshoveled snow; I want to appreciate the pristine, paper-sharp hue of its white but find myself frustrated, sweating at the exertion. Yesterday's magical wonderland awe is replaced with a hardness I don't like in myself. They say the temperatures will plummet all week, but it's not that. It's that you gave yourself one day of simply existing in the moment of each snowflake, of looking not beyond and not further inside, but just at the crystal dendrites of each snowflake as it tumbles to the ground: solitary, at first, unique, then indistinguishable in a sea of snow cover. There's a metaphor in there somewhere.
And maybe that's why the morning after is heavy.
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