Walk to daycare

The morning is all freezing rain.

I have to wear a big blue poncho over my oxygen concentrator so that the moisture doesn’t damage the machine, and the tiny ice pellets coming into contact with it sound like kernels of corn popping, like flames crackling. Jones and I are happy enough. The rain, neither liquid nor solid at this point, is sparking freshly off our faces, it’s chemistry in the process of revision as it tumbles from one form to another.

Ted, who works for our landlord, is outside. He seems ancient, like he was born from the earth rather than flesh. His exterior more bark than skin. And he is reaching into a bucket of salt and bare-handing it onto the sidewalks. Like he’s feeding chicken. Like he’s scattering seeds. Up and down the street he wanders.

Jones and I make our way slowly and carefully toward daycare. Jones stopping for every fallen thing.

Jones climbing every mound of snow. Jones stomping every plate of ice. Before us are men shovelling the snow and slush from their part of the sidewalk. Maybe four or five of them stretching up the street. Each one feeling useful and alive in the elements, each one happy to have a weight to carry. A need to fill. Each one smiles and waves as we pass. My oxygen concentrator venting beneath the poncho so that it billows at regular intervals, pulsing– puffing out and then receding, again and again. Jones small and wild beside me, we’re anime characters now, passing through the ghost clouds of the day and into the great and mysterious universe waiting beyond our sight.