First Encounters of the Snow Kind

     Staring up at that gargantuan snow-covered hill on Sixth Street made my entrails reenact the Mexican war for independence. It was an upset. I was wishing to reach the top on my smooth soled shoes that now felt like bananas under my feet. I gave my first step. My foot slowly slid back down like butter on a hot frying skillet. In my reality, snow was as fictitious as Santa Claus and the curious little elves he chose to surround himself with. I gathered in my hand a bunch of that cotton-like death threatening material. I inspected it. It smelled as boring as this limpid metaphor. “It’s not too bad.” I thought, and then changed my mind as soon as my hand was crimson with complaints at the foul tortures I perversely imposed upon it. I gave two speedy steps onward and wrapped my arm around a tree God predestined for my salvation. I don’t make fun of tree huggers any more. That solid unmoving mass of reliability restored my hopes of survival. I tearfully left that friend for another one six feet away. Four trees later, I stared at an empty sidewalk. I decided I would prefer to deal with cars honking maniacally and driving towards me.