Myself: A Fiction
He had stayed up all night with the falling snow, and now in the bleak day with the salted and melting streets and the rusty shovels swirling dust and clumps into the air, he too, had lost hold of his quiet peace, now given way to shapeless chaos. Earlier, in the darkness, it had been peaceful watching the drifts lock together in midair and drop silent layer upon layer of ill-defined whiteness to the ground. “I should live more slowly,” he had thought, “I should have more time.” Time. What time was it anyway? He didn’t want to know, but the question compelled him to glance over at the clock. Luckily, in his anxious haze that day he’d turned round all the clocks in the house, muttering something about needing no reminders. The day had been a hard one to live through and though night provided some comfort, he was in no state to sleep. Now, as the sun rose, the vast reach of the snow became apparent, and all intimacy was lost. “Snowfall is best seen by porch light,” he thought, recalling the night previous when the whole whirling world was confined to a small exterior corner, lit by a single bulb right outside his window. Especially admired was an old forgotten rake that lay in view and had been resting spoke-up since autumn. The night had grown on its rusty dullness a thick skin of gleaming white. This was something special the boy wished he could do. Not lose himself, wash nothing clean, there was no need for that, but cover himself with something full and pure, and lie completely still within it. Humoring this thought he returned to the window realizing the whole world had done just that. Birdhouses, lampposts, his neighbor’s swing set; all were layered in crystal. Most attractive was his car, now heavily caked and awaiting him in the driveway. And then he was there; sitting in the dim light seeping through his snow slated windows. “God it was miserable yesterday,” he spoke to the solitude. The staleness was still with him and here was a new day, promising nothing good, but stretching indeterminately into the future. There was comfort encapsulated in ice. But, the march of time caused him distraction and he grew bored with dark whiteness. He fingered the wiper lever, anticipating the joy of the slab being broken into two tablets and tossed full out onto the ground. Whoosh! His finger flicked, the snow flew and the thrill was entirely his.
For a moment.
For a moment.