Holdings

All last night the weatherman on the news talked about snow. Nine to twelve inches of snow. Enough snow to maybe, possibly, necessitate a snow day. As I raise the dingy white shade in my bedroom I am disappointed to see the same un-snow covered courtyard as the day before. As all hope for a day of freedom dissipates from my body I will my tired soul into action; I brush my teeth, wash my face, and make my unruly sleep-ridden hair somewhat presentable. I pull on a pair of too-tight jeans, a man’s white T-shirt, my trusty gray cardigan, and some warm boots. I grab my bag and winter jacket before clambering down six flights of stairs and out into the cold February air.

As I walk I notice the heaviness of the atmosphere, feel its pressure weighing down on my shoulders. The sky is a whitish gray and seems to quiver with the mass of fluffy precipitation lying just beyond its borders. I am surprised when the flakes start falling to the ground in groups of twos, then threes, then fours. I had half-expected expected the sky to burst beneath the pressure, releasing billions of the tiny flakes in one big pour. But that isn’t what happens. Minutes pass and still the flakes fall slowly and gracefully towards the earth. They cling to my jacket, my eyelashes, the yellow bangs swept carefully away from my face. It seems as though the sky won’t break, but will keep on holding – at least for a while longer – as will I.