Posted March 1, 2007on:
I’m not going out today if I can help it.
It is good to walk through snow, to let it alight on your face as you turn up to the patterns in the sky. You can stretch out your tongue like a lizard and wait for flakes, but leaving your eyes open and allowing snow to melt on your cornea–getting bigger and bigger, you’d think, though snowflakes don’t fall directly down; they shift from side to side and you can never just watch one come in; it’s more like a frigid ambush when they get you–is what really marks you as being serious about sensation.
The Radio Amateur Values Sensation.
The Radio Amateur is Friendly.
The plow comes slowly by with its lights whirling on top. We wave it down and she–an anomaly, a female driver–stops for us. The plowmen usually grin and let us in. They don’t have so much to do. They make good money plowing the roads in the early morning, or whenever they are called to duty. But it is dull, I think. They are lonely mostly. They like company and conversation. Hot coffee, or too-sweet cappuccino that tastes like cocoa.
She’s wearing latex gloves. She’s listening to music–some old AC/DC: Who Made Who–on a boombox with a fading battery. It goes in and out while my armless brother holds it on his lap. She wants to know where we’re from or where we’re going. Which is nowhere. We are out walking. Our dad is upstairs in the house with the lights off surrounded by radio equipment. It’s hard to come out with this, though. I point to my pellet gun. She nods as if she understands. My brother nods, too.
We are brothers. We are in tandem. We share secrets, cans of pop, the saliva collected in the bottoms of pop cans that makes up a small percentage of the fluid by volume as you reach the end. We share stories and last names.
From “Other Electricities: Stories” by Ander Monson