Internal Memo: Snow

We will bury you. You will be helpless in our frigid embrace. We will stop your trains, halt your cars,

We will bury you. You will be helpless in our frigid embrace. We will stop your trains, halt your cars, stall your trucks and cripple your buses. We will put your city into a coma. All of your money is useless against us. Your billionaire mayor is but an impotent elf. We will close your schools, and your children will learn nothing. We will starve you, chill you, bite you. Ponder the word amputation. Consider a life lived without fingers. Imagine your feet without toes. The wind blows us into your eyes, and you cry. Shovel us, and break your back. We mean to obstruct you, to remind that the spark of life is fleeting, that what burns today might tomorrow be covered in ice. We mean to shut you up in your apartment, where it is either too hot or too cold, where you cannot escape your spouse or your spawn or your roommates, or, worst of all, if you live alone, where you cannot escape yourself. 


We are born falling. We are conceived in the heavens and die in your sewers. In our presence you can never deny that beauty is terrifying. All that glows could soon grow dark. What is pure and white will soon be the filthiest puddle. You watch us fall, watch us glow in the morning sun, watch us be soiled and turn to muck, watch us melt and dribble down the drain. You watch all this and you glimpse the secrets of your own fate. You too will fall, you too will shine, you too will melt.

We are beloved by your children. The innocent know nothing of the world’s rot. Purity is for them a natural state. They fashion us into your image. Yet nothing could be as beastly as a snowman. The only thing they prefer to playing God is to plummet in their sleds, to simulate the ultimate journey–into the abyss. We break their fall, and it’s all a day in the park. But as the little ones pack us into balls and toss us in the air, as they learn the cold art of aggression, are they engaged in anything but a dress rehearsal for a carnival of carnage like the world has never seen?

You call us flakes. We hardly ever arrive on time. And when we do show up, we bring too many of our friends.

Sometimes we make you feel romantic. Walk with your lover down a street stepping a foot deep in our blanket. Fall with her into us. We are cold, but she is warm. Will she still love you when the spring comes, or will her love turn to slush? Is love like a tall tree, sometimes bright with leaves, sometimes glistening in ice, but always stable and strong? Or is love like a snowplow, something crude and blunt and always in short supply? The truth is, love is like the salt they toss on the steps. It’s coarse and unsightly, and it leaves you dirty and dry.

We are a metaphor for death. If we have not yet convinced you of that, it seems time to state it outright. 

When you look out your window upon a landscape covered by our white legions, do you think of cocaine? Do you want to get high? If so, you are a drug addict, and we sincerely advise you to seek professional help.

  Internal Memo: Snow