Snowy

A story.

It snowed yesterday, and left a coating of white dust on the trees, so the entire city looked like a painting.

For just a few moments, in an hour of the night where the partiers had gone to sleep and the professionals had not yet woken up, the city’s ugliness had been masked in white.

One man saw this perfection—a lone construction worker on his way to a job, who starts his grind while the whole world is still asleep.

That morning, he grumbled. His commute would take longer now. He cursed and took his first step, carving his footprint into the plush white carpet.

He took step after purposeful step. Each one had to be taller than usual. Shorter than usual. In a few extra minutes, he got to the subway—one of few entities in the city that were up before him. The man driving the train had not yet seen the snow.

The construction worker descended the steps, and the snow on his boots melted to form the first bit of black sludge.

Trucks drove down the dusty white streets.

Early risers shoveled their sidewalks, wrinkling the city’s fine linen.

Snow from a branch fell onto a half-sleeping woman absently shoveling out her car. She grumbled, too.

The streets were the first to lose their former sheen. Their snow quickly melted to form a rotten, wet ooze.

The sidewalks were covered in a new white substance: salt.

A child woke up and pointed at the scene from his bedroom window. His mother saw only an obstacle, but she smiled anyway.

He bundled up tight—scarf and hat to keep warm, gloves to protect his eager hands.

He grabbed at some freshly-shoveled snow. The snow was too hard to form a snowball, so he threw a snow-chunk instead.

It snowed yesterday, and snow-covered branches crowned a quiet city block in white.

The kid was the only one who looked up.

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