A Spring Snow

On the first day of spring, snow fell wet and heavy, a blanket to cover us from all that lives between us. It was quiet, not as cold as it looked. One could almost forget all that is living in the world right now, the invisible palpable fear of the collective. I tried to smile at people in the grocery store, faces hesitant but desperately longing for contact. Stay six feet away but for the sake of all that is holy look me in the eye and affirm that I am human. That was what I heard them saying. Some of them. Others seemed thankful they now had an excuse to remain separate, isolated, obscure. This type of snow weighs down the trees so the branches hang low, reach down to brush your shoulder, drop a clump of snow between the back of your head and the collar of your jacket; a branch that is usually over your head as you walk down the sidewalk now stands before you in bold defiance of the new laws of the land. The snow melts quickly, and puddles from street car snow melt reach up and grab your pant leg. Overgrown pumpkin size clumps of slushy icy snow linger in the street. All once dusty dirt, once revealed beneath the snow, is mud. It is difficult to walk, in grocery stores and alleyways, in spaces once deemed public now condemned, on sidewalks past dog-walkers and through the slurry of our concern and uncertainty. The grass is greener now, days after the spring snow covered it. It did not relent in pursuing its aspirations. Children play in puddles and mud and tromp through warm snow with wet sneakers. It is spring after all.