When the snow finally stopped, I decided to venture outside. I donned my puffed jacket – a Christmas present – slid on my wellies and clad my hands in mittens, then endeavoured to step into the bank. The snow sat a good seven feet tall and upon opening the front door I realized that anything short of a bulldozer would be a waste of time.
A sea of white, an ocean of opportunity.
I closed the door, ran upstairs to the front bedroom and opened the window. A two storey house, it looked over a small garden, or rather it usually did. The roses were somewhere in there, shivering. I pushed the window further open, as wide as its frame would allow and teased a leg with the cold. The welly dangled and soon the second joined it.
I sat there and contemplated a childhood fantasy.
Rocking back and forth – the window frame encouraging my removal, I jumped, dropping heavily through the misted air and landing with a star-shaped poof. My fall cushioned, my jeans filled with snow and my wellies lost ‘til the thaw.
I laughed the giggles of a four year old and then I laughed some more. Had anyone been capable of passing, they would surely have heard a disturbing sound, rising from a somewhere.
My gaze lingered on the blue sky above, dotted with heavy white clouds, aching to fall as I had. I struggled to my feet, entrenched.
Despite my relative geography, I was lost and now the snow would surely come, as would the overhanging drift that clung to the roof and threatened an imminent attack.