And the snow fell forever.

What are you fussing about, kiddo? Pops sighed as I rubbed my ski gloves together. He proffered me a shovel and his icy breath hovered between us like a question mark. I thought you loved the snow, he said and chuckled when I forced a weary smile. We’d been shifting snow for over two weeks and the white flakes had descended on our town like the dry skin from a giant’s eczematic scalp.

   It was fun on the first day when the snow gathered around the windows and settled in the front garden. It wasn’t deep enough to stop the school-run that morning and Pops cleared the driveway without my help. I recall dragging my sister, Nivia, out of her bedroom before breakfast and running outside to grab the crystalline confetti in my ravenous mitts. We made the most of the snow’s shallow deposit, scraping furrows along the car’s hood and windscreen, and compacting it into pint-sized incendiaries. With joyful abandon, we hurled our projectiles and gasped as they thudded on the garage door, missing Pop’s head by an inch. 

Leg it! Nivia hissed, bolting for safety.

You little varmints! Pops shouted, chasing us inside.

Boots off! Mum yelled as we collapsed in a heap, having messed up her clean floor.

   The sky was a giant oil-slick by three o’clock that first afternoon. Leaden clouds blocked out the sunlight, casting dark shadows over the town. The neighbourhood held its breath when the first clusters appeared and exhaled en masse as the showers became a torrent. There was no doubt that winter had arrived and everybody set about the business of last-minute shopping. Calm residential streets swirled into life with the sound of impatient horns and screeching brakes. Queues of cars jostled for priority, their tyres spinning like figure-skaters on ice-covered tarmac. In the aisles of our local supermarket, customers argued over toothpaste tubes and toilet rolls. 

   Nobody was certain how long it would last. There was no predicted end in sight. The news reports had warned us local shops might close for business because household essentials would run short. Even before that first day was done, the air reeked of car fumes, smoking tyres and raw panic. Our neighbours made the situation worse by stockpiling. Pops was no different. He packed the car with a month’s provisions, knowing everybody else would take the same precaution.

   Our car left tracks in the driveway when we returned with our supplies, but by six o’clock the evidence had gone; you’d never have guessed we’d ventured out. I drew the kitchen curtains at seven o’clock and noticed the road was smooth and iced to perfection like a wedding cake. Sodium street lights bathed our neighbourhood in a yellowish glow that leant it an unworldly air. Our garden’s shrubs and bushes assumed a ghostly appearance; hidden under shrouds as if we’d vacated the premises, protecting them with dust covers until our return. 

   I gave Pops the circular from the headmaster and he stuffed it in his jacket pocket without reading it, smiling as he did so and resting his hand on my head. Everyone expected the school would close until further notice. The paperwork was just a formality. They wanted parents to organise and monitor school work at home. Our resources were available on-line and Pops was our new teacher. 

   On the second day, we had enough snow to build a giant snow man. In fact, there was so much we constructed his wife, children, and a host of extended relatives. We hurled snowballs at each other until our hands were numb and our throats dry with yelling. 

Hey! Pops shouted. Aren’t you hungry?

Too right, we were starving. 

   We wriggled out of our wellies and bashed off the debris on the door step. Dumping our jackets and scarves at the bottom of the stairs, we raced into the welcome warmth of our kitchen where mum had prepared us steaming hot bowls of porridge. I remember the look of concentration on Nivia’s face as she drizzled golden honey over her oatmeal and stirred the wholesome mixture into an ambrosial sludge.  

   During the first week, we looked forward to helping Pops clear the driveway in front of the garage and the footpath down to the road. We took turns with the snow shovel, scraping and scratching at the icy detritus before dumping it onto the lawn area. As the days drifted past and our snow hills expanded, I had to remind myself there was grass hiding below our feet; I couldn’t imagine how it would survive.

   By day eight, the novelty of being outside and enjoying the extreme weather had faded, because the very thing we’d embraced had ensnared us in its icy grip. The reality of the new daily routine became apparent; we were in a Sisyphean cycle of removal and disposal with no apparent resolution. Every day we trudged out and jabbed our shovels at the frozen crystals, piling them up in burgeoning heaps. Unlike the legendary king of Corinth, our daily task intensified as ever-increasing amounts of snow fell during the night, disguising our previous day’s labours. Pops was a task-master who insisted we keep access to the road clear so that we could have immediate passage to the thoroughfare should the need arise. He was hard on us and tough on himself, forcing all concerned to engage with the task at hand. Pops was determined to combat the elements and would have driven himself into an early grave had the weather not improved. 

   The snow continued to fall and fall, as though it would never end. Two weeks passed by without a break in the wintery conditions and, under a brooding half-light, we retreated into our home. The gentle trundle of vehicles ceased when the roads became unusable and the local council admitted defeat, advising against unnecessary journeys.

   When the novelty of constructing armies of carrot-nosed soldiers had worn threadbare, we hacked and chipped away at the wretched snowflakes, reassured by Pops that the torment would cease. According to the cyclical laws of nature, the temperature had to revert to the previous season’s warmth. It’s just how the natural world works. There’s an inevitability to the process that comforted us during our darkest hours. We believed there had to be a conclusion, even when Pops prised open the front door to discover the snow had entombed us behind a five feet high drift. The sun, whose absence we cursed, would be our saviour and our best friend. In the end, the heroic orb of solar energy would return and melt winter’s frozen rubble, banishing it all to a watery grave. 

   We prayed every day as we cleared and shifted winter’s litter and our answer came as a heatwave. The sun transformed the monochromatic landscape to a living world of colour and fresh growth; bright green buds and strong, virile shoots greeted us. Our lawn survived and before long, we tended to its needs and our own.

The End