One night a couple of weeks ago, as snow fell, Bill and I went for a walk in my neighborhood after dinner. It could have been any night over the last month, it’s snowed so much. I pulled on my boots, wrapped my neck in a thick scarf I knitted a few years back, stuffed my hands in my mittens, put on a hat. We walked down my street in the middle of the road on packed snow, my feet occasionally slipping on the smoother surfaces. We were quickly covered, our heads and coats dotted white. We didn’t cross paths with another soul, only had to move off the street once or twice for a slow-moving car. Nobody had shoveled yet, our feet sunk into the newly accumulated white stuff up to our ankles when we stepped out of the road and onto the sidewalk. We walked and talked, keeping our voices low, respectful of the quiet, peaceful night.
We took our usual route, looping in and out of various streets, each getting us a little further from home. We passed the house with all the cats but didn’t see a one; I imagined them fighting for space, crawling over each other in their wooden house that sits on the wide front porch, protected from the elements. I stole glances into my neighbors’ homes through their front windows, watched a few seconds of sports, news and sitcoms on multiple sized large screen TVs as we passed each house. We turned at our usual spot and started the walk home.
It was a beautiful night and a lovely walk. When we got home we made the first pass with shovels on my sidewalk and driveway, more digging out would follow the next morning. Good practice for the snow that’s expected to fall later tonight and later this week.