It is March and it is snowing. We are sick of the snow by now, so we drag our feet. I don't know why all these people are out walking in the cold wet snow. But I smile at them and say Hello and pretend I know them. Some people shuffle along and make long tracks like skis in the snow. Some people walk very quickly like they're trying to stay between the snow flakes. They make very straight tracks. Some people walk slowly and evenly and carefully with their toes pointed out. They make tracks like the ones in a children's book I used to have about a boy playing in new snow. My footprints get mixed in with everyone elses'.

On my street I can see all the way down until it gets to a hill. There are lots of gray trees leaning out of peoples' yards. All the mailboxes live in clusters on one side of the street. Behind the gas station are all the cars that have been sitting there for as long as I can remember. All the snow that's fallen and melted this year is piled on top of them in layers like cake, with sheets of ice in between like frosting.

Cars splash slush on the sidewalks and make spots on the white snow. It reminds me of the Cat in the Hat, when the kids have the pink spot on the tub, and when they get it off the tub, it gets onto the dress, and when they get it off the dress, it gets onto the bed, and then the walls, and then the whole house, and finally it gets all over the snow outside. They clean it up somehow, I think. I don't think anyone will bother to clean up the spots on our snow.

There is a very old armchair by my desk with a tiny pillow that has "Merry Christmas" stiched on it in red and a soft pink blanket with a hole in it. I want to curl up in it and watch the snow fall and drink a mug of cocao and read about Ernest Hemingway's years in Paris and fall asleep. When I wake up, it will be Saturday morning and it will be spring.