The sound of the shower signals the start of the day proper; an end to this quiet morning time by myself, my time of contemplation and wonderings, newspapers and Sunday morning communication from the British Isles and my scattered siblings.
I watched as darkness moved slowly into light, breaking through fog, to a blue sky and pale sun. The thick snow is now a bright white and the grey trees are glistening white in the sunshine. My iPhone tells me it is now -30, an increase of 1 since 7am. It predicts that is should now be -14. Somehow, to me, the variations in sub-zero are not at all obvious. I wonder where Apple gets its
The front yard is cut through with tyre tracks. The back yard is untouched. The summer deck chairs, one pink, one green sit covered in snow, sheltered by the white branches of the Caraganas. The green lies on its side, strewn over by a storm a few weeks ago and never lifted. The coffee table sits alongside them, a tablecloth of snow where once I sat my strawberry daiquiri and watched the men play horseshoe. Perhaps we should have taken them inside. I had forgotten they were there.
The snow blankets my world, and somehow silences it. Snow gives time to breathe, to stop and listen to the silence. It cotton-wools my life; stress and tensions and plans don’t seem as important, as big, as imposing.
Footsteps come plodding towards my window seat, the coffee pot is lifted, the fridge opens. The day begins.