I scrape a hole in the window frost with my fingernail and see they’re hunched over like old men, coated with ice. Our street, lined with majestic maples, is a cool forest of shade in summer and a long flash of colour in the fall. Now, with each trunk, limb, and branch enveloped in ice, the trees seem to be made of glass. Beautiful but treacherous. Buffeted by gusts of wind, their coatings of ice crack like rifle shots. The power has failed and the storm’s icy fingers have stolen through loose window frames and under doors, snaking around the wires and pipes that finally burst last night. No serviceman will come to my rescue. My only choice is to make the trek over to Grandmother’s on Rue Dorien. There’ll be a cheery fire burning in the grate when I get there and lights instead of the few smoky candles I’ve had to use here. Walking to her house in the wake of the storm will be difficult, cold and lonely—but I have no choice. I can’t stay here. Even under the best conditions, I’m afraid to venture out alone after dark.
