by Danielle Charles
In November, I love the snow. I love it because it comes and goes, because it makes everything new, because it is exhilarating. I love it because I awake not knowing it will be there, because it is a surprise. I love it because when it melts, I miss it as I walk through the muddied brown grass. I love it like a child, like a thing that seems too wondrous to be, too beautiful to last.
Of course, come March things change. Then I will offer you a different opinion. I will tell you that snow is an oppressive curse of nature, an impediment to every thing that should otherwise be simple, like driving to work or wearing anything other than boots. Then it is a relationship gone sour, a person you have lived with too long. A person whose tiniest habits – the sound of their breathing at night, for example, or the way they always leave the cap off the toothpaste – might be the thing that finally pushes you over the edge. That is the snow in March.
But for now, it is only November, and the snow is a thing I love, foolishly, fervently, wondrously.
P.S. Just read this by the wonderful Guido Masé of A Radicle, and you should too.