Last week, we had one of our rare Vancouver snowstorms. But the stuff’s still on the ground.
The day of a snowfall here, people are cheery and fatalistic about it; the city’s not set up for it, but it doesn’t happen very often and it’s a novelty. The snow stacks up bright on the apples that neglected to leave the tree.
The children run wild in a universe entirely occupied by snowballs, sleds, snow forts, and of course snow people. I thought our jaunty specimen was shaped more like a snow lady, but 5½-year-olds are traditionalists and he wouldn’t have it.
The Christmas lights, which should be down by now but I’m not climbing ladders until it gets 10° warmer, are warm in the dusky white.
But like I said, that was last week. The snow is hard and icy and dirty now, like in some big city back East, and we remember how one winter back there, five months in, we decided to move three time-zones West to get away from this shit.
It’s getting us all down, even the snowman.
