buried

If, looking outside today, you leapt out of bed, downed a hefty bowl of granola, with a steaming latte on the side, slid into your warmies and your winter boots and dashed outside to play in the immensely beautiful snow – you were not me. Or even remotely like me.

But, as the afternoon progressed, I caved. Ignoring paperwork, ignoring work demands, I went outside. Snow like this is rare.

I walked the block to the lake and sure enough, finally, the ice fishers were there. Some with children, some alone.

A year has passed. Last winter, these guys had me out there watching, photographing them constantly. This year, only now did I feel it is safe enough for me to walk out and look around.



But that was just an afternoon pause. Basically, I remain buried. Under a layer of a different kind of white stuff: paper.