My drive in to work today was terrible. I mean, quadruple the length of time, three lanes down to two down to one down to what the hell is that guy doing, cars sliding into and out of my ‘lane’, holy cow gentle on the brakes, come-on-car-let’s-survive-this, gee I wish my windshield wipers were doing more than spreading the slush on my windshield, TERRIBLE. At least I wasn’t stupid enough to get on the highway.
Toronto really doesn’t get much snow. We’re in Canada, so you would think that we’d get a fair bit, but Lake-effects+location means that Toronto winters are grey, occasionally slushy, and gross. So, despite the terribleness of my drive this morning, I am definitely not complaining.
We have snow.
The kind that drowns the city in soft white fluff, covers the mud, the dead grass and the neverending discarded Timmy’s cups. It rounds the hard edges of buildings, makes every tree look like a confectioner’s dream, and muffles the noises of living.
When I was younger, I loved to bundle up in as many layers as possible to keep myself warm and sit in the snow. Preferably the deep fluffy banks of it that let you sink in like a lazyboy sofa made specifically for me.
Now, with at least as many layers of warming clothing, I like to walk in it. I love the crunch of snow under boot. I love my morning walks when the snow is falling so heavily, the roads are untouched by tire tread, and the world is covered in a blanket of white. Before people have had much chance to go out and shovel, layer the inevitable and hated coating of salt down, and start churning up dirt.
Gwynn likes to stick his whole head into piles of snow, shoving it in there as though the snow is the downy pile of fluffy white feathers it resembles. On mornings like this, I can’t resist letting go.
Gwynn treats snow like a reason to be on his best behaviour. Any other morning, if I were to drop the leash in the neighbourhood, he’d be up on peoples’ porches, worming his way into their back yards, and generally causing a huge pain of himself. With the snow thick on the sidewalk, he sticks close, dashing forward and back and rooting through the snow in search of smells.
Tonight, we’ll go out for an extra long walk through the snow-lit woods. Even after dark, the snow glows, like it stores the sunlight for later use.
Magic.
