It’s cloudy today. I hadn’t noticed: the telly has got so much of my attention that I had barely noticed it is snowing. I had waited for the snow to come for such a long time… months [it felt like years, though], really, and now that it is finally here I hadn’t even noticed. I casually looked outside: I casually stared at the blue curtained glass window and there it was. It’s not unusual for me to be so lost inside my own head to the point I can no longer notice my surroundings: I walk so deep inside the fog in my own head I forget to look outside and see the real fog. And then all of a sudden it is snowing! The pavement is covered in white and one can see the double prints cars make as they slowly drive by: the clouds are omnipresent high up in the sky. There is no evidence of the sun, even though I know it’s there.
I told myself I would walk outside as soon as it snowed: I told myself it would be a gift to myself, one that didn’t need buying, one that required only one thing. Maybe two: I don’t have company. It wouldn’t be as nice to walk around alone, would it? I have no company at all. But I look outside: it is the most beautiful day and in such a melancholic way. It is the day for which I had been waiting. And while it happens here am I, watching television. I don’t even know what I am watching anymore.
There’s the wood nearby. I chose this house because of them. I was shocked by how tiny this city is when I first arrived, but the tininess provided me with such privilege: I could live on the outskirts and still be near the town centre. I could walk or bike to work and I could drive there and none of the options would be unbearable, none of them would be too expensive or time consuming or tiring. And then I walked around these blocks and I saw the woods and the deal was closed instantly inside my mind: that was the house I was going to live in, the one in which I still live. I chose this place; I chose these walls and these bedrooms and the floor because of the woods, because I could walk in them and because of the snow and how it would cover the tall trees and how I would enjoy seeing them. That was the whole point and it still should be.
It should be the whole point of living here. I must go out. It is snowing and the snow is inviting me outside: its tender and unhurried fall says ‘come on out, Lucy: and see me, for I am here for you’. Of course the snow doesn’t talk but if it could… if it could that is exactly what it would say. I can hear it inside my ears, as a quiet whisper.
The telly is still on: I was so busy putting on my boats and layers of clothes that I easily forgot it’d be best to have turned it off. I am as alone as I can be and still I feel close to all that is around me: I feel the presence of my own thoughts and the glorious snow-covered mountain that looks down to me, as if winking at the sight of my outside walk. I can see the woods from where I stand: a grey cat snoozes on the porch of the last house of this street and then it’s trees all around. And then it is the quiet rustle of the stream nearby and the rocks covered in white and the leaves trying to hold the many snowflakes piling up on them. And then it is the reason I moved here, the reason I thought I’d be happier, the reason I seemed to have forgotten: the reason I now so intensely remember.