As a blizzard wheezes out its final gusts, your city—at last—surrenders.
The streets are empty, except for distant headlights. As you trudge around the block, people stagger by, remarking on the weather.
The woman cross-country skiing in the middle of the street: “Just lovely.”
The neighbor who fell into a snowy heap and laughed at herself: “I like it. Everybody else is sick of it, but I don’t mind it at all.”
The not-very-tall lady waist-deep in snow, dragging a shovel behind her: “I love it! I feel like a kid again.”
You see a couple trekking down a track left by a large vehicle. “Beautiful, isn’t it?” you say.
“That’s one way to put it,” harrumphs the man, and her companion giggles bitterly.
Blizzards last forever. Once imprinted in the history books, they stick, like hurricanes and great floods. Photos of white lumps, which you realize are buried cars. Stories of clearing sidewalks for hours. Power going out. Board games and Netflix marathons. The city draws to a halt. School and work and businesses have already accepted tomorrow’s closure. Everything you see will freeze solid, and then will freeze in time. And for now, you have nothing to do but get back home. And warm up.
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