I tell stories. A lot of them.
I tell stories of a city, or at least the North Side, I grumble to myself when not feeling up to task. I tell stories of people and places and that time an alderman bit off another alderman’s ear.
I’m working on a project that, if all goes to plan, could be the first to quote both U.S. Appeals Court Judge Abner Mivka and Nadwuar the Human Serviette.
But is it wrong that the only story I want to tell today is the snow?
It’s lazy, cheap. I tweeted just yesterday to mock the TV news crews doing live remotes and breaking coverage of little flakes falling from the sky.
“Thank god for local TV news,” I wrote. “How else would I know it’s snowing? A window? Like a savage???”
But the night has waned, the pot and mugs now soak to get rid of the chocolate grit of the abuelita that was waiting for me after clearing the porch. It’s time for me to write and the only story I can think of is snow.
It’s beautiful outside. (Hacky.)
I feel safe and cozy in. (Trite! Lame!)
The flakes stream by my window casting a glitter into the night and blanketing the world in a shimmering canvas to write the day on. (Yes yes, Hobbes ol’ buddy. “Let’s go exploring.”)
Out the window, a thin young woman in a floppy hat chatters on a phone. Across the street, a man in track pants sprints as well as he can, either jogging or racing to catch a closing door. Their only story is snow as well.
Sleep comes piled under blankets, turning late-night cocoa into early-morning coffee. The darkness outside can now be pinned on late dawn, not early dusk.
I see the flakes starting again, or maybe they’re from last night, just blowing off my neighbor’s roof.
I made the right decision. This was the only story I wanted to tell.