It happened like this: Break came to a close. I moved through my house, scooping my things from their random whereabouts: iPhone charger by the kitchen table, Wii U in the basement, best hoodie in the laundry room. Skated out to my car, loaded everything up. Took a victory lap or two of the house. Said goodbye for a bit. Slow-going, snowy drive under a dark sky. Pulled back into Charleston, parked my car with flashers in the Lawson drive so as to unload, then stopped by McDonald’s for a Diet Coke before settling back in. Netflix, laundry, sentimental apartment times. Bed.
When I awoke, however, the snowfall had begun. By the time lunchtime rolled around, it dawned on me that I’d need to journey out into it to find food. I bundled, zipped, double-gloved and triple-socked. As I stepped out into the snow, walking a little bit like the Michelin man, I was met with the bite of a sharp breeze. (There is nothing less welcome than a winter breeze.) Onward I journeyed.
I went to Subway, but I’ll be honest: I’d intended to go to Taco Bell. As it turns out, Taco Bell gave its employees a day home from the snowfall. Subway was less merciful. For about thirty minutes, I sat alone in enjoyment of a turkey sub and a warm restaurant.
And I sojourned home, my face resolute and my running shoes soaking in the snow. When I stepped back into my apartment, I kicked off the snow clothes and toppled onto the couch. A very small reminder of the immense blessing of shelter, warmth, and food.
I don’t love winter. I don’t like snow. I would rather be just about any adjective than cold. But it never fails to remind me of just how much I love the sun, the grass and the pavement, the feeling of being beautifully warm.