The winter wind bites at my face as I step out the door.
I recoil. I was not expecting it. I wish I'd dried my hair.
I run to the car and am stuck with my ass hanging out the car door, trying to buckle my kids in their carseats with numb fingers.
The steering wheel freezes my fingers, so I drive with my palms. Where did I put those driving gloves? Are there any matches in the pile of mittens I put away last spring?
The road is white with salt, though the snow was nothing more than windswept dust, gone in a matter of hours under the day's grey light. But I see the road transformed in to four tire-track lanes of dirty slush, with ice-crusted curbs. I see the windshield white with sweeping, silent flakes, the winshield wipers caked with flecks of frozen water.
I see the end of outside.
I try to think of cozy blizzard, inside days;the way the world holds its breath and waits for it to pass. Then digs out and keeps moving.
Ever onward.
