On Snow, Part I
Welcome back to the Northeast! Just in time for the roaring soaring New England blizzard of March. Just like Old England, I presume, but without the royalty and with a staunch disregard for the pedestrian. Shall I lecture on the merits of shoveled sidewalks and cleared steps or shall I digress into the pleasures of snowy mornings and snowy nights?
When I left this morning, I was the second out the building. My boots slipped every way, down the sloping sidewalk to the street, but I tried to keep in the solid treads of the boots that broke the snow before me. When you are the first out making tracks, you can think about the wonder of tiny crystals falling from the sky. You can think about the hush of the world, the still sleeping people in mountains of meringue white sheets, and the futility of the traffic lights blinking, because there are no cars on the streets, even they are tucked away in secret weather emergency hiding holes. You can close your eyes for a moment and imagine yourself away from the city, in a field or a woods or on a sheet of ice or look up and spin about, lost in the snow globe, and imagine yourself a child again, because you are very small and filled with expectation of what each flake brings down from the heavens.
When you are the second out though, you must wonder about those early rising path makers, the long striding early to workers, and the determinations and dreams that accompany each step. Sometimes you wonder about the actual feet that made the prints that morning, but sometimes you imagine all those ever who walked the same path. Pioneers and patriots, their purpose driven feet faded into memory and history, awaken in the minds of the second outers to tread again. For certainly, if departed souls step back onto the earth, they came down and made their marks with the snowflakes.
I wondered about you, because this morning, you were out first. I wondered if you were filled with expectation and chilly excitement, but thought not. Many times I've been awake with you in the very early morning, enough times to know that you remain in a slumber like state well out of bed and onto the train. To you, I imagine that the soft snowy world around was the perfect complement to your sleepy mind. Without appiritions of old Bostonians, your brain was content in the snow softened world. But you're the first one out, and you're quite a romantic, so you must perform the obligatory snow dreams.
Walking all along Garden Street, the unplowed path before us. There is something in an unplowed street that makes your mind linger. Of course there is no reason to plow, since there is no reason to go anywhere and without reason, we're simply wandering. We're walking, though, since the bus that would take us back to the Square was polite enough not to intrude on the perfection of the evening. Wandering with a purpose, walking without haste, we match strides, yours of course must slow to mine. The sparkling flakes catch in the halo of the street lights, a final moment of individuality before they blend into the blanket of unique six sided dots that descended on the world. In this last moment they wish us well, as do the raucous groups of students making the trek in the opposite direction. Their cheers are muffled by the snow, and then their voices fade away behind us and we are alone, stepping into the empty world of the Radcliffe Yard. We dance upon the snowy stage and from the dark glossy windows of old Radcliffe buildings old cherry ribboned souls watch and wish and dream to be alive and young with us. We are not cold, and that is the best thing about heartbreakingly beautiful snows. And the other best thing, of course, is you.
Along down the street your steps and my steps merge with the other long striding early risers until we aren't alone or even distinguishable anymore. Every step, every snowflake, every blizzard unique, and yet indiscernible. Memories frozen in time and then sometimes imagined again in our minds on snowy snowy days. We are just four more feet, added to the paths of dozens of others throughout all of time. And then, though I cannot see them anymore, I know your steps turn at Gloucester and I continue on my way. I will see you at home this evening.
When I left this morning, I was the second out the building. My boots slipped every way, down the sloping sidewalk to the street, but I tried to keep in the solid treads of the boots that broke the snow before me. When you are the first out making tracks, you can think about the wonder of tiny crystals falling from the sky. You can think about the hush of the world, the still sleeping people in mountains of meringue white sheets, and the futility of the traffic lights blinking, because there are no cars on the streets, even they are tucked away in secret weather emergency hiding holes. You can close your eyes for a moment and imagine yourself away from the city, in a field or a woods or on a sheet of ice or look up and spin about, lost in the snow globe, and imagine yourself a child again, because you are very small and filled with expectation of what each flake brings down from the heavens.
When you are the second out though, you must wonder about those early rising path makers, the long striding early to workers, and the determinations and dreams that accompany each step. Sometimes you wonder about the actual feet that made the prints that morning, but sometimes you imagine all those ever who walked the same path. Pioneers and patriots, their purpose driven feet faded into memory and history, awaken in the minds of the second outers to tread again. For certainly, if departed souls step back onto the earth, they came down and made their marks with the snowflakes.
I wondered about you, because this morning, you were out first. I wondered if you were filled with expectation and chilly excitement, but thought not. Many times I've been awake with you in the very early morning, enough times to know that you remain in a slumber like state well out of bed and onto the train. To you, I imagine that the soft snowy world around was the perfect complement to your sleepy mind. Without appiritions of old Bostonians, your brain was content in the snow softened world. But you're the first one out, and you're quite a romantic, so you must perform the obligatory snow dreams.
Walking all along Garden Street, the unplowed path before us. There is something in an unplowed street that makes your mind linger. Of course there is no reason to plow, since there is no reason to go anywhere and without reason, we're simply wandering. We're walking, though, since the bus that would take us back to the Square was polite enough not to intrude on the perfection of the evening. Wandering with a purpose, walking without haste, we match strides, yours of course must slow to mine. The sparkling flakes catch in the halo of the street lights, a final moment of individuality before they blend into the blanket of unique six sided dots that descended on the world. In this last moment they wish us well, as do the raucous groups of students making the trek in the opposite direction. Their cheers are muffled by the snow, and then their voices fade away behind us and we are alone, stepping into the empty world of the Radcliffe Yard. We dance upon the snowy stage and from the dark glossy windows of old Radcliffe buildings old cherry ribboned souls watch and wish and dream to be alive and young with us. We are not cold, and that is the best thing about heartbreakingly beautiful snows. And the other best thing, of course, is you.
Along down the street your steps and my steps merge with the other long striding early risers until we aren't alone or even distinguishable anymore. Every step, every snowflake, every blizzard unique, and yet indiscernible. Memories frozen in time and then sometimes imagined again in our minds on snowy snowy days. We are just four more feet, added to the paths of dozens of others throughout all of time. And then, though I cannot see them anymore, I know your steps turn at Gloucester and I continue on my way. I will see you at home this evening.
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