Mr. Snow, we need to have a little chat.

14 Jan

Dear Snow.

I do like you. We have a subtle love affair. Before you arrive, I dream about you. It’s all I can do to stop thinking about your slushy gleem, the sparkle on your surface in the moonlight on one of those perfect, heartbreaking winter nights. The crunch under my boots, turning to squeaks as you’re worn down.

During the summer, the heady days of August when even the mosquitos have screamed “screw this crap!” and hide in the bushes by the stream behind my house, I compose my odes to your frigidity. I think of my breath hanging in the air, tongues stuck to zipper pulls, fingers cool and numb from snowballs. The cold wet, almost like a dog nose, down my boots after running through the field with my children.

I think back to years long gone. Snow forts, built by my brother in the snowbacks next door, created by the clearing of a parking lot. At 3 feet tall, they seem huge, like the world! My brother would carve out the space inside, use a candle to melt the walls to ice, making them solid, real. I would sit, huddled, with only that candle to light the space as night fell, and I was alone with the sound of my breathing echoing in my ears.

I’d play for hours with you snow. Building worlds, castles, countries. Later, while I straddled the line between youth and adulthood, we’d run riot through backyards and streets, laughing and heaving snow at and around each other. I’d stop and look up, and see the stars run on forever in the inky sky. It was almost as if the sky was dripping, and wanted me to reach out and touch, my wet mittens soggy, their ice crystals blending in with the stars above.

I’ve grown older, and my appreciation is now more for late night walks in the dusky air, the solidness of it all, the eerie perfection of a still evening.


Already, in the last month or so, we’ve received around 150cms of snow. Which then mostly melted. We are now set to receive, at the very least, 25 more cms tonight. They haven’t said what we’ll get tomorrow.

Snow, as much as I adore you, I have tired of you. I’m afraid I must cast you off like a worn shirt, into the junk heap, into yesterday’s jumbled mess of stuff. I’ve had quite enough of you. This fling has to end somewhere, sometime, and now, I believe I’m ready to throw myself headlong into the arms of Summer, that fickle, tempermental beast.

If only I could find him.

2 Responses to “Mr. Snow, we need to have a little chat.”

  1. Hannah January 14, 2008 at 1:28 pm #

    Well, this is far more eloquent than me just muttering incoherently about bloody snow, and wondering how I will make it ’til spring when my winter coat already doesn’t button over my ever-expanding baby belly and my swollen ankles won’t fit into my boots.

    The snow has started here in Halifax and its little tiny evil flakes that every Canadian knows signifies fucking piles of the stuff.

    I suspect that tattooed bad boy known as “summer” is laying by a pool in Mexico, surrounded by beautiful women and drinking something with an umbrella in it.

  2. thordora January 14, 2008 at 1:38 pm #

    Hannah, get a hoodie. I wore my giant neon pink Jem hoodie my entire pregnancy with Rosalyn. It fit under the coat I couldn’t do up, yet kept me warm. Otherwise, I just wandered around muttering about it.

    Stupid bastard. He’s actually in new Zealand I think.

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