3
Feathering
There is a feathering of snow, your mother says, and to her this is something slight, inconsequential. To you, though, this would be enough. Each snowflake could blister your skin, causing you pain. You stand at the window and watch the flakes fall—so innocent—stare hard at them until your eyes blur. You watch them catch and swirl in the wind and wonder if the wind blew hard enough whether you could navigate a path between the snowflakes so they would not touch your skin. You picture them as tiny white butterflies, too timid to land on you. You would walk amongst them then and lose yourself in this flurry of blankness falling from above.
But you are indoors, where you must be. You are the disease, and the disease is you. There is no walking away from it; it makes itself kno
