The snow in New England is heavy and wet. It doesn't cave in or flake off under weight. It's snowman snow. Walking home Monday night, I saw the word "Exactly" scrolled into the snow bank to my right in perfect, undisturbed cursive. The snow rounded the edges of the word, making it even more lovely. A little ahead, I saw the words "I am?" in a different print. After a driveway followed the rest of the conversation, which was a lot like something I might write have written to my sister if my mom had told us to be quiet in church. It was a celebration of the very possibility of a written exchange, not any sort of actual discussion. Further up the hill lie signatures and drawings, will-you-marry-me's and fuck-you's. Four parallel lines where someone had distractedly dragged his gloved fingertips as he walked. Three days of snow graffiti preserved for anyone to see. But walking home on a noiseless night, I felt like it was all for me.
No comments:
Post a Comment