after the storm

Waiting outside, the bunch of us, all strangers waiting and turned towards where the bus should appear, all of us like dogs outside a shop eagerly looking in and waiting for our master’s return. We are all facing one way and not the other, and it is not to protect ourselves from the swirling snow. Last night’s storm laid a powder of fine snow atop an under-layer of thick snow, and this morning it swirls any which way, hither thither. In any direction we cannot see three streets away, the view obstruct by the thick whiteness. The cars, huddled one after the other, crease as they advance, their tires crushing snow. It’s a sound I usually like under my boots, but there’s a sentinel feel to the clamour of the cars that disturbs me. I think, as I look at the red and uncovered ear of the girl standing next to me who has snow drift in her bun of hair, of the sound of her voice when she asked me, “Julie, are you _____’s daughter?” Something in the question scared me, whether her recognition or this odd location of identity, I cannot say; but, my heart skipped a beat. Three streets away I see the bus coming. The time it takes to remove my mit, open my bag, search for my wallet, unzip the compartment where my bus pass is stored, and close my bag, my hand is frozen. My stop is the second on the westward route and I am always assured a seated spot, so I sit down, bag on knees, as the bus creases into a long and slow ride to the metro station, and I write down these lines.