SNOWFALL

Mid-March. The forecast predicts snowfall. It will be the last of the year, they say. You begin to prepare. You hustle through morning chores, and tell your workers that they will have the afternoon off today. The morning’s forecast, and the dark cloud on the horizon are enough to quiet complaints. You had planned to start building a new well house that afternoon. It will have to wait now – you need those boards. You make sure that the pens are closed. You bring your horses into stable. You tell them to be good, and give them blankets and oats. You tell them you love them. Tonight it doesn’t feel silly. Wind tears across your field, just once. The trees on the edge of your land rustle, and something falls. You pay no mind to this. You have no time.

Ten years you have owned and farmed this land. Nine times you have been through this before. False Spring comes, and you wonder hopefully if this year will be different. You listen for the weather every day, and like each year past, your heart sinks with that forecast.

Snow.

When it comes, it starts as rain. Chilly, but not unpleasant, in it’s own cathartic way. You pick up the pace. With the rain comes a sense of dread, but you’ve done this before and know what needs to be done. You board up, and make a mental note to get more lumber for the well house-to-be. You lock the gate to your property, and make it back inside just as the first, fat lumps of snow begin to fall. The windows are shuttered and nailed. You draw the curtains just in case. It’s better not to see out tonight.

Inside, you head for the cellar. The cellar light needs changing. You ignore the darkness and check the cellar door. You push against the boards, but are not relieved when they do not budge. You chain and lock the cellar door. You grab a door bar on your way back up. You purchased it only three years ago, and as you install it on the front door you notice a crack. You vow to replace it first thing in the morning. You walk through the kitchen, and realize you are parched. As you drink your glass, you inspect the bricks that cover the back door. Laid before you bought the house and land. You think the bricks might be older than yourself. You have forgotten the well house.

You putter around the house. Cellar, main floor, upstairs, back to the cellar. You are trying to manifest work by sheer force of will. Anything that might make time go faster. You know there is nothing left. You turn lights off and settle in the living room. You mentally check off your tasks. Everything is done, and all that is left is the waiting. You take one peek outside. The snow falls heavy now, blanketing your land in silence. You know you won’t leave until the sun is well up tomorrow.

It is evening. You know because the clocks tell you this. You know because you are hungry. You think back – did you eat today? No. You had a coffee just before the weather forecast. You do not light the stove. You reach into the fridge and eat cold leftovers, drowned with a beer. You turn on the radio, and immediately the room is filled with wailing guitar. You lower the volume to a murmur. You sit and try to distract yourself. Outside, something howls. A life living in the country cannot tell you what it is. As you bring your rifle down from it’s rack and load it methodically, you hope that the stables are secure. You know that they are not.

You think towards morning. There will be repairs to be made. To the fence, to the stables, and to the house. You’ll work along the fence by yourself tomorrow. The snow takes longer to melt near the trees, and your workers will have questions you can’t answer. In a few of the years past you had seen what appeared to be tracks. Every year you hope you won’t see more. Your workers already have questions you can’t answer. You turn the radio up, hoping the music drowns your thoughts. Hoping it distracts you from the noises growing outside. It is not wind.

A few more hours pass. Again the clock betrays you, announcing the sun has surely set by now. The music on the radio is no longer playing. A voice is speaking now. It is not any language you know. You don’t know how long it has been going on. You turn the radio off. You stand and go to the bookshelf. You can’t read any of the spines in the dark and you won’t turn on a light. You feel the books, and grab the bible by touch. It is the smallest. You return to your chair.

You check that your gun is loaded. You turn your chair to the front door. In another hour, when the knocking comes at your door, you do not answer. You do not answer not because you do not wish to be neighborly. You do not answer simply because you do not have neighbors. You shoulder your rifle and watch the door. You hold your gun and gaze for longer than you think you can manage.

You dig the bible out of the cushion. You have never been what you consider to be a pious man, but tonight you will pray in earnest. You pray as you do every year. You pray that morning comes just a little sooner this time.