There’s barely any snow. It’s been below zero once that I’ve noticed, and maybe twice more that I haven’t. In the mornings I fry eggs for the boys on the wood stove; it’s dark outside and they sleepily dress for work while I tend to their breakfast. The fire whooshes and the eggs are done so I slide them onto chipped plates. Two yolks intact, one broken, one leaking just a little. Not really broken, not really intact. No one cares one way or another, it’s just a game I play, trying to keep those yolks whole. I’m not too good at it.
They eat and leave. I ski on the scratchy snow, do chores, then drive over the mountain. It snowed a little the night before, it’s still snowing now, in fact, but so lightly you could almost miss it. Maybe an inch total, and yet the old man who lives in the trailer on the other side of the mountain is shovelling his driveway. He’s cleared the neatest of paths down one side of his drive and seems to be working his way back up the other side. The edges of his path are so crisp I want to stop and take a photo. The trailer is old, but clean. It looks freshly painted. The old man looks spry and happy and I watch him in the rearview mirror for as long as I can.