doop doop breakin my writer's block
She is in her pajamas, but dons her soft down coat and puts on a bright orange dickey. She can not find a hat but the material stretches like a too large turtle neck and covers all but her face, framing it in blazing orange. Her gloves are borrowed from a neighbor down the street from a sledding excursion over a month ago. They were on the table to be returned. Her boots belong to her brother. They are camouflage patterned and too big and strike the ground loudly when she walks, but they are warm.
Her mother wraps up in a soft white scarf and puts on a too-small hat. They laugh a bit, their faces from too much wine. Or maybe just enough. Fashion disasters. Like clowns. Red and white and orange. Blue and black and camouflage.
The wind outside is cold and blinding white with snow falling too quick. The skies are all at once gloomy and bright and flashes of lightning brighten it in its entirety in sporadic spurts. The snowblower won't start no matter how hard they pull the cord. Maybe they are too tipsy to read the instructions right.
They talk over the wind as they dig their shovels into the piles of accumulated snow. The wind has left the driveway bare in some parts, the concrete smiling mockingly next to the two foot mounds pressed against the garage door. The talking becomes complaining. “Come inside,” she insists. If her mother comes, she will not feel guilty.
“Go put the kettle on. I'll be there in a minute.”
“If you're not back in five, I'm coming back out naked.” She wags her finger as though it is a real threat. Her mother laughs.
Her thighs are cherry red and her eyebrows have ice in them. Her pants are soaked through. The gloves will not be returned today.