It is Christmas Eve morning, and it is snowing. It has been snowing all month. Cars creep into intersections, the drivers' views obscured by five-foot-high walls of snow at each corner. I inch my way out of my alley, which has a similar wall, and I cannot see the cars that come flying around the curve toward me.
Pedestrians must scramble over these walls to mail a letter, or cross the street, or wait for a city bus. And still it keeps snowing.
This was my commute earlier in the week. Was it Tuesday? Wednesday? Who can remember? Each day is just a blur of flakes and white.
Roads are slick, and because of the mounds of snow on either side they are only about 2/3 their normal width. When you come to an approaching car, you have to take turns.
But it is pretty, so pretty. And it is Christmas Eve. I am leaving for work in ten minutes, and when I get home we will have chicken stew, and a fire in the fireplace, and a little Baileys, and carols. We will light candles and listen to Dylan Thomas read "A Child's Christmas in Wales." Maybe Doug will open a birthday present or two, even though his birthday is actually tomorrow. There will be cookies galore, and cashews, and krum kakke.
And in the morning, family and more family and then at night more family still.
"I made a snowman, and my brother knocked it down, and I knocked my brother down, and then we had tea."
"Can the fishes see it snowing?"
"Nobody could have had a noisier Christmas Eve."
Looking forward to my 54th holiday listening of Dylan Thomas. Merry Christmas to you all!