the van chugged through the snow-slogged streets. shovels, salt and ice breakers rattled around in a cavernous trunk. our silence was a collective prayer to God; we would not die on unclean roads. we slowed to a stop in front of our old house, and wildly cleared the sidewalk and stairs for tenants still snug in their beds. our voices rang out on the quiet street. a cop car did donuts in a Wendy’s parking lot. the bodegas were still open. they were lighthouses on streets where houses were shuttered against the wind.
writers need snow days too. we need the time to recuperate, to curl up and read a good book, to pack snow between mittened hands and hurl it at a sibling, to un-freeze in the bosom of a home, with the boiler and fireplace roaring in competition, to drink too much hot chocolate and eat slightly burnt bacon with thick slices of fresh bread and pads of real butter. we need hours to sleep and laugh and talk and worship and live.
the artist must be fed.