The snow collects so quickly onto the roof of my car, and because I’ve yet to force myself to go out and buy a snow brush/scraper, I use a broom I bought from the dollar store to shove it all off.

So I’ve got a frazzled broom sitting in my backseat, and no matter how many times I swat that broom around, the snow always nestles itself back into the tightest crevices. I can only hope and pray that it’ll all melt by the following day and not freeze on me.

One freezing night as I clambered in to heat up my trudging old ’99 Ford Taurus, silver, with a night blue side mirror attached to it (after I so gracefully pulled into my garage back at home and snapped the thing off) and grey duck tape sealing the jagged bumper, I tried to slam the door quickly behind me.

To my dismay, the rubber had frozen solid on me. With trembling hands and fingers that ached to my bones, as though arthritic, I could barely claw at the slivers of ice, suckling to the rubber like leeches. Infuriated, I was finally able to get the door to shut after pulling on it with a dangerous force.

Incidentally, my friend scolded me over the phone telling me to “take it easy” and that if I was not careful the door could have easily broken.

You know, at this point in the semester I’m constantly exhausted. It is not without great effort that I begrudgingly roll out of bed in the morning after prying my tired eyes open only to see mountains of snow piled in the backyard.

I don’t remember at what point I started hating the winter. Maybe it was when I finally had a car of my own and opening the front door to my apartment in the small hours of the morning was a dreaded task. Cleaning Lone Ranger (that’s my Taurus’ name) was an even more dreadful task.

There was a time when peering up at the snow and letting the flakes melt onto my lashes was the most beautiful thing. Walking under the streetlight and seeing the snow cake the sidewalks like sugar icing—watching it glisten and wink back up at me was a chilling and mesmerizing sight. Now I cringe at the white mounds as I haul myself to class–overcome by an insurmountable grief.

I was once delighted at the winter’s biting chill and the snow that made my fingers grow numb as I scoped out a target for my poorly made snowball after school. Even shoveling the spaces around our sidewalk back at home with my father was an exciting task. So much snow, I thought, with a silly grin on my face.

Now my hands tremble violently as the bitter wind nips at the core of my bones. I scowl at the bits of ice that hit my face and marinade in pools of sunlight whenever I get the chance. I am so ready for flip-flops, barbecues and the smell of freshly cut grass. Have mercy, Mother Nature, and take me there, now!

Margorie Clemente is senior English major.  She can be reached at 581-2812 or denopinions@gmail.com.