Last week I dug my car out of a foot and a half of ice-encrusted snow with a hammer, heavy rubber-soled boots, and a plank of composite wood. (I live in an apartment and do not own a shovel for the three times a year that it snows.)
I hammered and heeled my way through the layer of ice and then shuffled the remaining powder away. A neighbor loaned me the plank of wood. I hefted it over my head and slammed it into the thickest parts of the snow bank like a spear fisher or someone planting a flag on a frosty planet, calving it away in chunks.
On Sunday I walked on snowy sidewalks to church with a friend from across the street. Somewhere along the way I lost one half of my favorite pair of mittens, like a minor arc in Little Women, and I tried to not let it ruin my day.
There are white-gray salt prints inside my door, in sharp relief on the dark brown laminate wood of my floor.
There are weeks-old flowers in a mason jar on my dining table, clinging to color, next to the homemade candle in a vintage mug my friend gave me for Christmas and the napkin holder that keeps falling over.
There’s a newly empty corner behind the couch where the tree used to be, while the pile of leftover ornaments on the side table still scatters squares of sunlight on the walls in the early morning.
On the fridge there’s a new Save the Date—the one from December now tucked in a drawer along with ticket stubs and birthday cards.
Throw blankets on the couches are unfurled and crumpled and folded up night after night.
The plants by the sliding glass door are buffeted by hot air from the overhead vent and the layer of cold air between them and the balcony.
Books half-read and candles half-burned are littered about the apartment on end tables and coffee tables and bedside tables.
And tea and tea and coffee and tea and hot chocolate. And daring trips to the store and signing up for a volleyball league so that my body gets warm and I’m in a different room with different people at least once a week.
There’s a brown wool-blend sweater air drying on a towel on my bedroom floor that I bought at the thrift store, even though I’m running out of drawers and shelves to keep sweaters on, because one friend swears by wool and I don’t have one in brown and it will really liven up my otherwise gray, navy, and cream wardrobe.
My coworker’s wet hair freezes on our walk past empty federal buildings on our way to a concert. I write poems in a small black notebook at work when I get sleepy in the afternoon.
And there’s the dentist appointment I keep putting off and the Olympics watch parties I’ll host over Valentine’s weekend when I don’t have plans and I’m wondering what snacks to bring to that gluten-free birthday party.
And there’s heartbreaking tragedy and violence and greed in the news and in the words and images shared by friends and classmates and comedians and strangers.
And the light is lasting a little bit longer each day.
Christina Ribbens (’19) studied history, studio art, and data science at Calvin and public humanities at Georgetown. She now lives in the part of Virginia that’s almost Washington, DC where she helps award grants to arts nonprofits. She takes a lot of walks to admire the landscaping in peoples’ front yards, mostly listens to British comedians’ podcasts, and likes to make friends via sports.
