Christina's Sense of Snow

The fantasy of snow::

Tufts of fluffy white snow covering the ground, icecicles gracefully forming.
Skeletal trees reaching their arms to the sky.
All the world is quiet, is beautifully glistening, temporarily frozen motionless.
Waiting.
A moment of silence before the bustle begins--
Ahh, I think I'll have a mug of steaming tea and contemplate the day.
The reality of snow::

You're woken up to a bunch of teenaged kids who want to shovel your steps for money,
which is great, only you haven't got any cash on you.
You trudge out of bed, toss a load of laundry in the wash, and feed your roommate's swawking bird.
She's out of town you see, unreachable for at least a week in sunny California.
You find the most ridiculous clothes-- purple leggings, a green sweater, thick pink striped socks.
You look like a clown as you set forth from your bastion of warmth.
There's at least a foot of snow on the ground.

You then shovel and shovel until you think you might break--
the builders obviously thought they were crafting grand stairs leading to some holy temple.
It's just a house, for chrissakes.
(In your head, you've titled them the Steps of Doom.)

You then realize that your boyfriend's spending the night.
Better shovel him a parking spot, then, too.
Two hours later, you feel faint.
You drag yourself inside, pull off your sopping wet clothes.
'Tea!' you think, brightening.
Then you remember you haven't got any milk.

The view from my backyard.

The final set of stairs leading to the door.

The pathway leading to the garden.

The rest of my street.

A beautiful tree next door.

Another shot of the Stairs of Doom.

One of the icecicles that nearly impaled me. But look how pretty!