The cars on the old city street move more slowly and run more quietly tonight. The rubber on their tires do not hit the pavement as snow fills the traction. One after the other they try to cut a track in the storm but make little headway.
Here on the sidewalk the dog romps through the fresh powder in the parkway. The traffic is so quiet, silenced by the snow, I can hear the dog’s sniffing for clues of friends fresh-past. The lights of the street lamps reveal no let-up to the storm any time soon. It has been snowing since morning and looks to continue till night’s turning.
Prints of boots and shoes leave a path; I add my own mark to it, at times shuffling, at times stomping. I am alone on this path now but not without predecessors.
Then, I see another soul. One lone woman shovels a path with her dog tethered to a leash. An exercise in futility. The point where she started is already covered in another inch but she continues to labor with her pet tugging at the handle all the same.
The metal gate makes no sound as it opens. The white snow tries to bury its blackness but finds sticking difficult. Still, clumps of snow pile on its edges. It does not want to close, stopped by the pile on the ground next to it. I grant its wish and leave the gate open.
The back courtyard is a miniature Yukon. The snow sparkles. God is cutting a big diamond in heaven and these flakes are the leftover chips sent to enrich the earth—evidence of his work.
We ascend the stairs and open the door. Home. Yes, storms can make life better.