The snow we have had recently is like my mother. When they are here I want them gone but when they are gone I miss them terribly. I remember waiting for it. I remember being told ‘The snow is coming, the snow is coming’ and looking to the sky expectantly, hopefully. Days passed and it never came. Then one day I awoke and looked out of my bedroom window and there it was like icing on a wedding cake. I almost felt like I could go out and eat it. This is how I feel when my mother visits: a lurch of joy and then the novelty wears off.
Both are deceptively appealing. Both give the illusion of warmth, of comfort of solidity, of comfort, of peace. Until you touch them. One of the cliches used to describe snow is ‘blanket’ and that’s what it looks like: a big, old white duvet that you feel like you can crawl beneath and sleep forever. I’m told that sheep borrow into snow-covered hillsides, seeking solace from the cold. The snow becomes their womb. Their warm breath creates air holes so they can breathe. They gnaw at their own wool for protein. But the snow defeats them eventually. The ice presses in on them and it becomes their tomb. Just like my mother. After a few days she becomes my jailer. I love both my mother and the snow but sometimes they outstay their welcome.
So Sick of Drowning 