Photo by Hillary Degani.

by Kathryn Silver-Hajo

Thirty days and thirty nights we stayed in bed while the wind wailed and the blizzard raged. The electricity sparked, sputtered and stopped, snow plows struggled, finally retreated. The city went silent and soft, then dark and cold. Snow layered and piled and we heaped every blanket, throw, coat and scarf we owned on top and settled in. 

The first week was a love banquet of Kamasutric proportions. Sammukha! Piditaka! Virsha! Indrani! During interludes, we donned winter coats, hats, gloves, 70s-style leg warmers, ventured to the kitchen for fresh delights: mangoes, mandarins, pineapples, plums. Peeled and presented plump and juicy to each other’s tongues.

We ooh-ed at the crystalline flakes sparkling in the light cones of streetlamps, filling the air, porch, and yard. We cracked open windows, inhaled fresh, electric air, sipped Chivas and Shiraz from chipped cups. Slept deep as the hushed drifts.

Second week we sponged off in glacial water, talked feelings, traumas and worries normally hidden inside, baring and sharing things rarely acknowledged even to ourselves. We hugged, cried, curled around each other like cats. We brought firewood from the basement, cooked carrots, potatoes, half-thawed chicken in a round-bellied iron pot over snapping logs, inhaling the comforting smokiness. We warmed our feet, massaged each other’s toes, read Rumi and Angelou aloud.

Third week we shivered, frowned, stared out at the white sea topping our windowsills. We argued and complained about silence, isolation, hunger, each other. Not even the drone and clack of a plow to break the monotony. We pillaged the Y2K-cum-COVID-cum-pick-your-disaster storehouse under the basement stairs—canned peaches, baked beans, and peanut butter accompanied by icy draughts of snow melt.

Fourth week we eeled to opposite sides of the bed and silence dominated the lightless days. We fetal-positioned our own hungry, shivering frames and wept without sound. Finally, the sun returned and with it a steady drip-drip-dripping outside.

On the twenty-ninth day they brought giant plows from some far-off arctic place, carved great, towering walls of the stuff. The municipality delivered snow shoes and cross-country skis and a few at a time, people emerged from their frozen cocoons to whoop and sob and embrace while trying to keep from tumbling and sinking in. They shielded their eyes from the brilliant sun while hurling shovelfuls over shoulders. Emergency supplies were brought in Army surplus bags. 

The thirtieth day, electricity, heat, and hot water restored, we showered, dressed in clean flannels and argyle socks, sat at our kitchen table drinking government-issue tea, snarfing government-issue cheese and crackers. We stared at dust motes tumbling in the sunlight. Exhaled. We made it, you said.

We reached fingertips towards each other like shy teenagers. You lifted an eyebrow and I giggled. We raised the window and snow dumped in from the mounded ledge. We crunched perfect snowballs and lobbed them, one sliding down my neck, another smack against your forehead. We screamed and howled and I said I’m glad you’re here. You grinned, mouthed me too.