It snowed last night. Piled up ice crystals have raised the gallery railing's height by four inches. At the spot where I just put my hands two dents have come into being. I'm looking down from the third floor and I can see the orange rectangular that our Ford Capri has become. The car has been cleared of snow. Maybe dad is in the car already. While I'm trying to make a snowball, the mittens attached by strings to my coat sway to and fro. I release the ball above the car's hood. Over my head a woman's voice resounds.
new year's morning