A True New England Snowfall

I had been missing the true New England snowfalls of my youth, and sifting pictures bears out that nostalgia had not made them larger than life (or how way-over-protective parents made you dress.) So much about them is missing these days. What starts out as snow now quickly turns to slush and from slush to a depressing day. Last winter, however, this, if just one time, was corrected, and I was blessed with a true New England snowfall once again.

I ran out, a little kid, and gazed in wonder at the pure snow-blanketed roads and yards, as yet untouched by car exhaust. I stood mesmerized by the icicles hanging off what can only be described as trees of angel-wings. I smiled up at the sky as cotton ball flakes floated down seemingly from Heaven itself, even catching at few on my tongue. It was as if I were inside a snow-shaker-Christmas-globe. The hush, though, the hush is what finally caught me. The only one out, there was a hush on the street, a hush you could seemingly hear if you listened for it. I felt like the only person alive and, at that moment, connected to existence itself.

Then in the distance, a small speck appeared as if birthing from the snow itself. As it drew nearer and grew larger, I saw it was John, the mailman, all bundled up. This was perfect, I thought. If there were one person I’d want to share this intimate moment with, it would be John. Neither rain, nor sleet, nor snow may keep him from delivering the mail, but cancer would not keep him from life. He had beaten the odds, baffled his doctors, and, not only lived, but flourished. He knew the beauty of every breath, the astonishing feeling of being connected to existence, the magic of essentially knowing there was indeed something greater than us.

And so, as he approached, winter coat zipped to the top, hood pulled forward covering his face from the elements, I smiled. Yes, I smiled and said, my voice resonating with the excitement of a small child, “Amazing, isn’t it?”

John then immediately pulled back his hood, the snow clinging to his beard and mustache making him resemble Santa Claus, looked me over a moment or two, my eagerness for his words almost unbearable, and said finally, “Fuck you,” and with that, he pulled his hood forward and continued on.

Yes, there really is nothing like a true New England snowfall.