“Of course I would see you everywhere. I already do, all the time. You’re the most beautifully composed one’n ‘most any environment.”
“True story?”
“Ongoing, and could use an evening update.”
“Read all about it? Extra! Extra!”
“Whaddaya mean?” I asked, “I’m takin’ it easy…don’ be dramatic.” My face was still numb-rubbery from the time spent mining the car out of the inevitable snow dune formed of the amalgamated drifts of wintertime and the wind-lofted efforts of others’ car-unburying.
“We’re in a white car roughly the size of a refrigerator in a place as white as…”
“The driven snow?” I smiled, albeit rubberilly. “You’re the Editor. Sunrise or sunset side? Wake early or sleep late?”. We were on a narrow peninsula which afforded a few options either way, some more easily accessed than others. The tiny hatchback was stuffed with gear, water, food, maps; a compass—her idea, her compass. This was before cellphones or consumer GPS, but the AM radio worked. The one receivable station was gospel, but they featured weather on the hour.
She put her gloved hand on mine, resting on the bulbous gear shift knob of the ‘79 Mitsubishi with a high and low selector for the other 4 gear ratios. This was 1 Low, which was not going to be too much torque to cause the tiny front tires to slip, when I would eventually let off the handbrake and rapidly open the throttle of the pre-revved 60 HP engine at the stop sign. A drivetrain that was not familiar with “torque” when it was new, 100k miles ago. At the top of the snow-slicked, gust-crusted hill.
She took her hand from mine, quickly ungloved both hands to warm and wipe her side window to clear the perpendicular view of breathy dewfrost .
“All clear on this side!” she said, breath showing. The car’s heater wasn’t designed for hard winter. Or winter. My frosted window curled wisps of shaved ice after it finally broke free with a snap, the toy-like crank handle straining to lower the glass so I could see out. Inch by inch.
“Roger that,” I said, mimicking the pilot/intercom voice, “Starboard aaaand Portside are clear for launch. Tachometer reads 1800 and steady. Good to go?”
“Go!”
And so we went; and so it goes.
…
~ww, The Driven Snow, 8 March ‘25
