When the Coldest Night Conceals the Deepest Secrets: Inside Midwinter Distraction
I could ask my neighbor a mile away to tell me again about the jars of water she sets out in moonlight or the oranges she inserts in meals. Or I could ask her to wax on about summer, now that we are in the thick of February in Maine.
I used to love snow. I still don’t mind snow. It’s the wet, weight, heft of it, how it causes the sag, scrape, and toil of the house, the road, my body. Weather can be a welcome distraction. I shovel twelve-foot swaths around the house for satisfaction like checking off lists. I once read how snow is an insulator for sound, and there is noise everywhere these days — the current administration, the billionaires, billionaires rocketing to space, the snowblowers, snowplows, gas-leaking generators, the ex-partner’s confusing texts — so why do I shove such softness away from the foundation, the roof, all that surrounds?
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