A Winter Weather Silence

         In my first step to my winter destination, my hands instantly froze within my bum gloves. The finger sleeves and flapping mitten concoction failed purposefully there outside, seeing they’re designed to be worn inside. They’re not for a homeless outsider look or an artsy insider style, but who cares. My hands were dead cold everywhere. My artic climbing mittens, naturally, were outside while my hands needing gloves were inside needing to go outside to get into my car where those artic mittens were.
         All nine of my jacket pockets were full (not that it matters), and doors in the Artic don’t have knobs. I guess the people in the Artic are against carpel tunnel or freezing to death outside their locked doors. It’s hard to ring a doorbell and give a loud knocking with mittens. The only reasonable solution in this knob-door neighborhood mitten situation was the bum gloves inside one of my nine jackets, whose pockets were no longer quite full.
         For the past three hours, it had snowed too much or too little. I’m not sure which.
         All I knew was someone told me the weatherman was a liar and some others (while interrupting blissful grand pauses’ of breathless wind) reassured that although “liar” was the right term, the degree of the lying was more severe due to newer information.
         It was depressing; the massive amount of innocent silent seconds being murdered by people everyday while they interpreted the weatherman’s lies. The weatherman needs a crystal ball, a fortune telling gimmick, a surgeon general warning, just something, to disillusion its importance and cancel their twenty-four hour time slot. Maybe, just maybe, people need to learn to talk.
         Unarguably, the snow sadistically sheathed my car for wishing silence. It was in cahoots with that lying weatherman, I am sure. My car, one stage away from glacier-fixation, seemed to be sleeping under the softest comforter. Which, I was assuming would only fly off on the highway when I reached that as yet unknown speed during a week-long heat wave. Deciding to clean off the car seemed better than waiting. I thought it might be more fun knowing what was going to kill me in the crash that I was surely going to have on the highway on that icy spot that not even the weatherman could predict.
         I climbed into my oversized coffin, after uncovering the driver side door. What did all those Pharaohs do with so much room? It didn’t matter. I turned the key to warm the car and opened the trunk to look for tools. I had broken my last two car sweepers, and I didn’t seem to have a third to clear snow off the car; so I used an old tennis racquet. I could use it for tennis, but the new one was better. I kept the racquet cover on.
         I pursued my project with religious determination, although it seemed somewhat pointless trying to sift through the powdery snow for a message from God. Unfortunately, a traffic cop had argued otherwise some time in the past. Now, I ask you why would God reveal himself on a pink ticket, buried under five inches of snow, on my crappy car? The traffic cop must have had a zealot following or something like the future-telling weatherman. Who knows. I trashed the pink ticket, using my racket to whisk it away. It was too cold to believe and my backhand needed more practice. My muscles burnt from the strenuous task and my hands still stayed frozen under my gloves but my car finally became clean enough to drive. I settled inside to take my drive.
         The snowplows were waiting for the snow to stop, but it started snowing harder. There were a few straight tracks in the snowy road; the curved ones aimed straight for trees. My foot became hesitant every other second between brake and gas. I turned the volume knob on the radio to zero to forget all the voices from today.
         The snow made the night glow a shaded filter yellow with help from the street posts’ open-hooked embrace and crunched helplessly under my cars cautious rolling tires. Everything was serene, even the wiper blades were singing their mechanically whooshing song. My mind emptied and peacefully wondered about “nothingness”. It was the end of the tunnel until I turned right into the garage and parked the car.