Yesterday was a day to relive. Yesterday, the snow was so fresh and white, so clean and quiet and beautiful that it felt like a treasure. I wanted to preserve it, somehow, so that the memory of snowflakes in eddies of wind from the lake ― swirling around, up instead of down, falling quietly on the patient noses of tethered dogs, silencing footsteps on the street ― lasted longer than a day. I watched a bundled up toddler, I don’t know if the child was a boy or a girl, because all I could see was an upturned face, eyes squeezed shut, mouth open wide to catch a snowflake, even if it was just one.
Today was an unremarkable day. Today, I walked outside, and it was cold and grey. The wind made nothing dance. It bit my face. I walked in ash-grey slush. I felt as though I walked on something that had been trampled to death. I dragged my feet through it like hundreds of others before me. I made sure I had carefully folded up the cuffs of my jeans so that they would not get dirty.