I think of snow and its properties—how quickly it can change from ice to sleet to rain and back again. How it can smoothdust your face and melt into you, like a hush. Or how, on days it has been dirtied and used, it turns to mud and slush. And I think of my sister. We liked snow. It was one of the few places we were friends. Born both in October, not even a year apart, we were estranged twins. Dressed and coddled and cramped into the other, we fought daily for space and our own identities. We didn’t wear shirts or shoes in the summer, we played Cowboys and Indians with the neighborhood boys, we hunted for frogs and hid them in our babysitter’s bed. We said, poop and fart and damn. Nights held our soft secrets, our …
