It’s 11:35 and those of us that are still awake are watching a documentary on some of my favorite music (right now Bonnie Rait is talking about Jackson Brown), I can hear the fire crackling, the dogs are sleeping and sighing curled up into themselves. Now that my mom’s done bustling around the kitchen (she’s had a hard time sitting still this trip) she’s pouring herself a glass of wine and singing along with Carole King. Outside it’s snowing soft and quiet.
There’s something about snow, the way it covers everything, that makes you feel like it’s falling everywhere.
Which reminds me of the end of story I haven’t read in a while…
A few light taps upon the pane made him turn to the window. It had begun to snow again. He watched sleepily the flakes, silver and dark, falling obliquely against the lamplight. The time had come for him to set out on his journey westward. Yes, the newspapers were right: snow was general all over Ireland. It was falling on every part of the dark central plain, on the treeless hills, falling softly upon the Bog of Allen and, father westward, sofly falling into the dark mutinous Shannon waves. It was falling too, upon every part of the lonely churchyard on the hill where Michael Furey lay buried. It lay thickly drifted on the crooked crosses and headstones, on the spears of the little gate, on the barren thorns. His soul swooned slowly as he heard the snow falling faintly through the universe and faintly falling, like the descent of their last end, upon all the living and the dead.