Forecasting more snow for tomorrow night.
A woman on the bus chuckles, eager
to rub it in when she phones her brother
in the U.P. Old guy next to her shugs,
“Eh, they’re used to it up there. ‘Swhere I’m from.”
All winter this snow kept reminding me
of where I’m from. Snows like the ones this year,
tallied not in inches but in feet.
Mike. What was his last name? Perry? Kerry?
Scrawny kid, angled face, pale, freckled, fast.
I don’t remember. I do remember
his family’s small yellow house, tucked away
in a hollow with trees. That long winter
(was it 4th grade? 3rd?) it snowed like this year.
The yellow house was just about buried
with snow up to the roof. When my folks phoned
I heard the high-pitched squealing arguments
in the background, boys being cooped-up boys.
Mike didn’t make it back to school for days,
until all the dads in the neighborhood
got together to dig a narrow path
down to their front door. Until then, neighbors
took turns lowering milk and eggs gently
down the chimney. Oh, yeah, and the homework.