by Sandra Fees

He’s here at the wrong time, the guy with the ergonomic shovel ringing the 8 am doorbell, snow continuing to emit starshowers, an inch an hour. And we don’t have cash, anyway. And I remember we meant to buy one ahead of the storm—the ergonomic kind, blade yellow as a duck’s bill. I think her name’s Eileen, the storm. His, we don’t know, but he’s been by before.

From the bow window, we watch him trudge off. The city plowtruck shoves a wall of white regret behind him, then returns flinging a sepia tone of rocksalt. My husband and I whisperswear at the exact same time. The cat crouches on the ledge.

Branches are draped in winterwhite like brides, the birdbath frosted like a wedding cake on a pedestal. Everything’s bridal when you’re a newlywed, even after sixty. Even after a decade of checking single on your tax return. And then one day you Say Yes to the Dress. Even when you know exactly what you’re saying yes to—the random ups, downs, the years, the years ahead, behind.

Flakes fall so fast. We might get lucky. Our neighbor with the monster snowblower might siphon the sidewalk. And the driveway. And the space in front of the house where my husband parks his 2005 Kia.

The sky’s as white as it’s ever going to get. The backgammon game’s still on the table from last night, the brown and ivory pieces lined up. I hope for as much choice as chance in this life. Luck has a pattern. And snowflakes. And treelimbs. And us.

And already the inch-an-hour snowdazzle has veiled ergonomic guy’s boot prints. The internet goes in, out. We carry our shovels from the garage, blades a bit wonky. I’m as happy as I might ever be. And a little scared, a little snowsparkled. Luminescence is hard to hold onto. Snow melts so fast, disappears as though never here at all.