There is snow in my backyard. I can see it through the two glass-paneled doors from my viewpoint on the couch. The grass is still as green as it was in July, and it peeks through the blanket of ice like a toe through a threadbare sock. On the first morning after snowfall, I peered down from the second floor and thought the grass had frosted over so fast that its color didn’t have time to leave.

I know that the reason for the snow is the shadow that my house casts on the ground, and that if the few rays of sunlight that fall on some patches at just the right hour of winter afternoon could stay longer, I would not be looking sideways through the two glass-paneled doors from my viewpoint on the couch and see any snow.
I would love to walk outside and lie on the ground, see what it feels like. Is it frozen and lumpy, like dried mud that twists ankles and wrinkles leather? Is it prickly like ice cream that has been forgotten in the freezer for too long? Or is it soggy like it is in the spring, when I spread a towel onto the ground and lie on top, unaware of the water seeping into my jeans and shirt?

“Do you believe in energy, or a god?” I wrinkle my nose, and my mom adds, “Or nothing?” I sigh and chew on my bottom lip. She continues before I can answer. “Why do we even need religion anymore? I mean, we have all this technology-- why would I believe that someone created the world?” I shrug.

“I guess it just makes them happy, believing in something.” I pet the dog and cross my legs, and mom flips onto her back on the bed, looking at the ceiling.

“Yes, but why? If you believe that God, or whoever, has control, why try?” I know that it is rhetorical, but I also know that she is waiting for me to respond. I shrug, and wipe the dog spit from my hand onto the carpet.
“I don’t know.” She sighs.

When it rains, a puddle forms in front of the side door of my house. It gathers into a crack in the stone and stays there for days before sinking into the ground to grow weeds, weeds that wait to be drowned in the next downpour.
The puddle forms from a drip, which forms from the gutter that stops abruptly over the puddle. The gutter only drips when it rains, after it rains, and seemingly all the other times as well. It is habitual to step to the left now when approaching the door, in order to avoid The Drip that is always there and sometimes not. I can tell how often my friends have been to my new house by studying how they walk in the door-- right or center (the left has an un-flowered flower pot bigger than the puddle). I do not think they notice, though.

During a rainstorm, The Drip becomes less in sync with itself, beating rapidly and randomly and louder than thunder. When the sun appears, it is as if it were a defibrillator stopping an erratically pumping heart, steadying The Drip. Not stopping it-- steadying it. The Drip cannot be stopped. I envy The Drip occasionally, when I sit with the dog on the tile in front of the side door and watch The Drip drip. It has endless Purpose, The Drip. Sometimes, I want Purpose like that. I want to drip.

At 6:30, Kevin enters the house, to the obvious joy of the dog. We look at him from the kitchen, and he smiles like a puppy finding himself in a mirror, confused but enthusiastic. “What?”

“Nothing,” my mom says lightly, turning away and pretending to continue eating. Kevin climbs the two stairs and walks over to where she’s sitting in his seat. He asks “What?” like a whisper but without the hushed part, and leans in to kiss her cheek. She looks at him at the same time, and he kisses her smile instead. The dog jumps on him and Margot screams “Ew!” and they break apart, eyes dancing. Their faces are weathered like statues, old like the sculptor. Yeah, I think. We’re happy.

But outside is too cold, cold enough for there to be snow in the shade, so I do not walk outside and I do not lie on the ground and surrender my body to whatever texture the moistness of the earth holds. Instead, I sit on the couch and I shiver in my sweater and I watch the dog watch the snow and I listen to her whine our desire.

I bet that if I grasped the snow in my hands, my fingers would turn pink, then red. My breath would shiver and fog the air like smog, releasing moisture for which my throat hurts. If I tore the snow from the ground, my body heat would melt it into the water that would run through my palm and onto the other snow, frozen blood the color of God. All that would be left would be the green grass sticking to my cold, soaked hands, and my shivers slowly growing and swelling like earthquakes. I would walk back inside, dry my hands on my pants, and stand in front of the fireplace, daring the dog to reclaim her place on the warm tile.

It is cold outside, and warm in here. I wonder which is better: to enjoy the comfort or to experience the freezing joy. I wonder if there is a third option, or if we have any choice at all.
 

“Do I have to choose one at the end? I don’t know how to decide.”

“I don’t think you can.”