Snow Drifts
Audrey-Anna Gamache
They say it’s going to be a bad one. Gusts of New England wind send snow drifts across the silvery air, scattered against the cap pulled down to the crook of your nose. Dotting your furrowed brow and reddened cheeks. You take each step with measured determination, as your old frail body doesn’t work like it used to.
“It’s going to be a helluva storm,” Eamon says, through fogged breath. It’s twenty degrees, and he’s still outside fixing his truck, the rusted blue bumper still smashed from the last snowstorm. Figures. It’s not his first rodeo, and God-willing, it won’t be his last. You home in on the porch steps where the light cascades down the driveway in slivers, like the shadows of angels—your own yellow brick road to the mailbox. You know you can make it. Forget your shaking hands and wobbling knees. The oasis that this mailbox promises, satiation in the form of a letter from the daughter you’ve long forgiven. The mirage that she might have finally forgiven you. Alicia. My darling Alicia. You think of her, strands of brown hair and eyes that burn like green embers; her staggered step on her very first snow day. The way she cried when she slipped on the ice. You should have helped her up and told her it would be okay. You shouldn’t have left her fallen in the snowbank, up to her knees in snow.
You can see yourself in the glossy reflection of the ice layering the driveway. The scruff of your graying beard, the whiskers puffed in your nostrils, the yellowing of your stained teeth. You think about the days when the blizzards were so high and blinding, they would catch you on your way to school, entombing you in their frigid embrace. The cold will make you strong, Mother used to say. You learn to live with it, and one day it won’t phase you anymore. These are the words you say to Alicia as she sits crying on the damp ground. It is this mantra that brazens Eamon and strengthens his resilience to fix his truck despite the impending storm. The dying revs of his fractured engine filter their way into your memories as you let the image of your mother flurry away with the wind.
You sigh, breath like the wishing out of candles, the hope of a long-awaited letter from your daughter. You are thankful for each step that your body steadies despite the way your feet writhe against the current, shards of ice now caking the back of your Carhartt jacket. When you reach that esteemed mailbox, and your hand grasps its frozen handle, you yank the door open with a pride you thought was lost in boyhood. You find your strength, only for it to be torn away once again in the revelation of the mailbox’s emptiness. Your heart melts into the slush around your boots. You should have picked her up. You should have held her close until she was warm, until the cold couldn’t bitter her. You should have told her you loved her. You slam the mailbox shut, and your body staggers. You slump over in the snowbank, and the slush soaks through to your socks.
“Are you alright, Pete?” Eamon calls, lifting his head from metallic monstrosity. He steps forward in his driveway, reaching out a hand for you to grab, were you to need it.
“Oh, fuck off, old man,” you grumble back, using the barren mailbox to steady your stance. You turn your back to Eamon, and disregarding his calls, you begin your journey back up your driveway. As you stumble toward your porch, you think of Alicia, of her tiny frame left crying in the snow. Your thoughts form the letter you would send, if only you were brave enough to allow yourself to be weak. Alica, I’m sorry. I love you. It’s okay. You pick her up and hold her close. If you don’t like the cold, we can always go inside where it’s warm. Her grimace fades, and she looks up at you and smiles. Would you like that? To go inside? You carry her up the driveway, your gait unaffected by time, and you slam the front door behind you, blotting out the sounds of the advancing storm.
“It’s going to be a helluva storm,” Eamon says, through fogged breath. It’s twenty degrees, and he’s still outside fixing his truck, the rusted blue bumper still smashed from the last snowstorm. Figures. It’s not his first rodeo, and God-willing, it won’t be his last. You home in on the porch steps where the light cascades down the driveway in slivers, like the shadows of angels—your own yellow brick road to the mailbox. You know you can make it. Forget your shaking hands and wobbling knees. The oasis that this mailbox promises, satiation in the form of a letter from the daughter you’ve long forgiven. The mirage that she might have finally forgiven you. Alicia. My darling Alicia. You think of her, strands of brown hair and eyes that burn like green embers; her staggered step on her very first snow day. The way she cried when she slipped on the ice. You should have helped her up and told her it would be okay. You shouldn’t have left her fallen in the snowbank, up to her knees in snow.
You can see yourself in the glossy reflection of the ice layering the driveway. The scruff of your graying beard, the whiskers puffed in your nostrils, the yellowing of your stained teeth. You think about the days when the blizzards were so high and blinding, they would catch you on your way to school, entombing you in their frigid embrace. The cold will make you strong, Mother used to say. You learn to live with it, and one day it won’t phase you anymore. These are the words you say to Alicia as she sits crying on the damp ground. It is this mantra that brazens Eamon and strengthens his resilience to fix his truck despite the impending storm. The dying revs of his fractured engine filter their way into your memories as you let the image of your mother flurry away with the wind.
You sigh, breath like the wishing out of candles, the hope of a long-awaited letter from your daughter. You are thankful for each step that your body steadies despite the way your feet writhe against the current, shards of ice now caking the back of your Carhartt jacket. When you reach that esteemed mailbox, and your hand grasps its frozen handle, you yank the door open with a pride you thought was lost in boyhood. You find your strength, only for it to be torn away once again in the revelation of the mailbox’s emptiness. Your heart melts into the slush around your boots. You should have picked her up. You should have held her close until she was warm, until the cold couldn’t bitter her. You should have told her you loved her. You slam the mailbox shut, and your body staggers. You slump over in the snowbank, and the slush soaks through to your socks.
“Are you alright, Pete?” Eamon calls, lifting his head from metallic monstrosity. He steps forward in his driveway, reaching out a hand for you to grab, were you to need it.
“Oh, fuck off, old man,” you grumble back, using the barren mailbox to steady your stance. You turn your back to Eamon, and disregarding his calls, you begin your journey back up your driveway. As you stumble toward your porch, you think of Alicia, of her tiny frame left crying in the snow. Your thoughts form the letter you would send, if only you were brave enough to allow yourself to be weak. Alica, I’m sorry. I love you. It’s okay. You pick her up and hold her close. If you don’t like the cold, we can always go inside where it’s warm. Her grimace fades, and she looks up at you and smiles. Would you like that? To go inside? You carry her up the driveway, your gait unaffected by time, and you slam the front door behind you, blotting out the sounds of the advancing storm.
Audrey-Anna Gamache is a writer and filmmaker based in New England. Her work has appeared in Chestnut Review, Underbelly Press, Filling Station, and Chaotic Merge Magazine. She can be found on X and Instagram @ScoutyLynch.