Darkness in white


There isn’t a story. There was only the thing itself:
An evening, a snow storm, a new home, our first winter in a new house, a new Us.
There was the quiet majesty of a thick quilt of white flakes, the oppressive hush of being smothered without knowing when it would set up – if it would let up – and the burnt umber glow of incandescent lights diffused through-the-air-and-over-everything-still by the infinite diaphanous facets of the falling snow itself.
The experience was magical in its delicacy and beauty. The experience was thrilling in its ominous slow-motion smothering, like being swallowed by the sky.