Freezing Rain

I was first aware of the freezing rain on the top step of my kitchen porch. Balancing a black plastic bag of clothes to donate to Goodwill on top of a box bound for the same destination, I sensed the sole of my shoe slide, just a quarter inch, enough to wish I had a free hand to grab the bannister. Leaning on my elbow, I was able to balance the load and inch my way down to the sidewalk.

It’s been a long time since I’ve seen freezing rain. More often, in winter, it either snows, sleets, or just straight-out rains.

A layer of ice coated my blue car. As I scraped the windshield, it broke into large, ragged pieces the size of dessert-plates, like impossibly thin, delicate sugar candy.

On Mass. Ave. I had a sweet David moment. A pedestrian with a large blue umbrella crossed the street ahead of me. I stopped, as is Commonwealth law, and waited until he arrived safely at the opposite curb. I could hear David telling me, disparagingly, that the law said you had to stop until the walker’s foot touched the opposite curb. “I guess that’s in case he decides to turn around and go back across.”

As part of his end-of-year accounting, Jim wrote to each of our kids, reporting the balance in their ‘HeirBanks’, where we keep track of their loans and debts. His email to me was brief:
            "I’m missing David..."