It doesn’t look like this as I write. The snow is coming fast and thick; I can barely make out my neighbor’s house through the fallow field that separates us.
Last night the news was abuzz with the coming storm. I woke once to the sound of plow scrapping pavement and when the alarm buzzed at 5:30 I peeked out the window. Clear roads, coffee on, morning rituals, local news.
What’s that you say Maggie O’Mara?
Just in, Nampa Schools are closed today.
A blizzard can be different things to different people. Was I a real grown-up, this morning would have meant groaning, ice-scraping, and battling the roads. Was I a child, it would be play and freedom. But from my in-between place, I sit in front of a blazing stove and watch it fall; it is peace. There are small animals curled nearby who refuse to go out, and horses have tucked themselves into the barn; there is shelter. The scars left from boots and hooves are erased; the fresh-fallen snow recreates the blank canvas a symbol of the mystery of life.