Cambridge,
MA—It’s a slushy morning in Cambridge, as those of you unfortunate enough to
have ventured outside already know. Frankly, I’d rather not be writing now but
curled up on the couch with a book and the cat, as my boots dry by the
radiator, wet socks hung across the back of a chair at the kitchen table.
The snow was beautiful last night.
Schoolchildren weren’t the only ones praying for another day off, but all the
workers and college students still hungover, looking up therapists after
dealing with relatives and in-laws, and still running continually to the
bathroom after all that feasting. You know what I’m talking about.
The sidewalks are awful. Shoveling and
salt are needed; an abundance of autumn leaves still unraked are strewn about,
encased in snow and ice. This is a day for poetry, for hot soup, coffee, cocoa,
young lovers lying in bed in pajamas, old folks sitting in their favorite
chair, reading the news—but this is the
news: what more to it?
-G.T. Evans
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