The Snowstorm
© Jen Knox
We have six gallons of drinking water, half a box of graham crackers, and oatmeal we’ve been eating with minimal water and warming on the space heater. We had perhaps our last small fire yesterday, and Joshua found a few packs of raisins, a food that used to make me cringe, behind the fridge. Consumables dwindle so incredibly fast. The plump raisins on my dry tongue were as tasty as any piece of three-layer chocolate cake would have been to my former self, the woman of only weeks ago—the woman worried about consuming too many calories or not walking 10,000 steps.
I have an ounce of power left on my phone, but the last time I powered it up I threw the thing across the room, so I’m not entirely sure it works now. There’s no internet anywhere. We are left with the emergency laws, instructions, and survival tips. Also, the lists. Long, stomach-twisting lists.
Joshua heard rustling sounds on and off over the last few days, and he was sure it was tunneling, which, at this point, is our only hope—rescue. Freezing to death will take some days. We have a lot of cloth, wool, and a cordless space heater that the news suggested before reports stopped. The water won’t last long, though, and this is all I can think of as I try to summon my strength.
We count to three and pull hard to gain an inch of light. The ice around the door gives, and a clump of snow releases. The fresh air feels nice before it bites at our cheeks. Yesterday’s snow is now an undercoat and the powdery top layer glistens.
“Looks like it’s winking at the sky,” Joshua says.
There is nothing but snow, expectant clouds, and the top halves of our neighbors’ homes. A few still have smoke escaping their chimneys.
“Nature’s secret,” I say. The wonderland covers cars and bikes; it climbs stairs and devours porches. Our doors are barricaded, with only a few feet uncovered at the top. It’s infuriatingly beautiful.
Joshua backs up and sighs as he grabs the broom. I lean all my weight in, hoping the door will close again easily today, but it doesn’t budge. Despite the cold that enters, it was recommended we keep opening the door and clearing the path as much as possible to prevent it from freezing closed. He sweeps at our warped wood floors, and I tell him to be careful around the window, where there is a fissure in the glass.
“We’re lucky to be on the north side of Grant Avenue, kiddo,” I say. He hates it when I call him kiddo, he’s too old, but he lets me off the hook. Joshua examines the slight incline toward the other side of the street. We were spared at least a foot of accumulation, not much but something.
He lingers in the doorway, and a thin arm of sunlight reaches in and warms my face; meanwhile, the icy air and blinding light crowd everything around it. We push the door again, together, but it still resists, and I imagine the raisins on my tongue. The inside of my mouth is like paper, but I need to hold out before I drink or eat anything.
