Pining

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It isn’t fair. Half of the country is preparing for a blizzard, and once again I am missing it.

I was there in 78. That was the year cars got snowed in on the turnpike and you could barely even see them — just bumps under the even blanket of snow. When it stopped we went skiing through the city, past abandoned city buses, stopped here and there with their doors wide open. The national guard had to airlift us food, and I felt disdain that they sent us Delicious apples rather than MacIntosh. I lent my quilt to the Red Cross for the people stuck on the turnpike.

N is there. She works late Friday nights. I am hoping her bosses, Mainers who certainly know snow, will send her home. She doesn’t believe anything will happen, but is worried about missing some kind of toboggan festival this weekend. Probably she will be fine.

I am watching these storms go by from a distance, but it won’t be forever. You’ll see — I’m going to make it back. And when I do, I’m buying a toboggan.

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