jamelah
Carrots
So many possibilities have already been suggested, but perhaps these carrots might represent the seven stages of snow.
First comes the snow of denial. It is cold, it coats the world white, but can it really be as bad as you remember it? Remember childhood and happy, hot chocolate, sledding days.
The second snow is only anger. Anger at those useless double income dolts who are too self important to shovel their sidewalk. Anger at the dunces who drive like this is a secret, snowy, bonus level of Grand Theft Auto. Anger at the wind for cutting your skin and at the zipper on your boots for snagging. You would willingly throttle a groundhog with your mittened hands.
Then the bargaining snow begins. If I shovel again tonight, then I have earned whipped cream on everything for ever. If I shovel and salt, then the car will start straight away in the morning and less than an inch of fresh will fall overnight. If I stop on the way home from work to buy enough salt for the rest of the week, then there will absolutely be a sudden thaw.
Next the grim slush of depression. Cats gaze from windows, blinking with weltschmerz. Every night another snowfall, every morning more ice sore scrapes.
And in the darkest hour comes the snow blankness. All is hidden, all is empty, all your senses are deprived. Your commute is a blind white tunnel.
Unexpectedly a truce. Evaluate your enemy, it is still encroaching. It sticks to the sole of every foot, it slithers wetly into your home territory, but there it melts. It hasn’t collapsed the roof, or broken the guttering.
Then at last, we reach acceptance. Bring it on. We will gather it and make a snowman. The dog still enjoys it for the first few minutes of every canine play. We will eat for comfort and snuggle in soft blankets, drink by the fireside and read by candlelight. Look, it is pretty. We might even miss it when it melts.
Blog photograph copyrighted to the photographer and used with permission by utata.org. All photographs used on utata.org are stored on flickr.com and are obtained via the flickr API. Text is copyrighted to the author, Rachel Irving and is used with permission by utata.org. Please see Show and Share Your Work
