Snow is falling. The radar is a just-bloomed bruise stretching backwards from here to Indiana. The precipitation is not the slow and drifting romance of a meandering snowfall, but much faster--almost reading like rain through the window. I can hear the tiny click-click of ice mixed in hitting. A sky of bad reception. This is the kind of snow that falls to build and build fast. I'm sitting and typing with my coffee, light therapy blaring, and a picture of young me open on the desktop. I am six or seven in the photo--bangs of my Dorothy Hamill haircut in my eyes, scrawny legs jutting from light blue shorts. I am emerging from a kid ride in the amusement park--giant yellow and blue sandbags hang on either side of me. I vaguely remember the maze of heaviness, each one swinging slow and nudging you in different directions. I have just finished saying something, or I'm about to speak, mouth almost open and one small hand poised outward. I'm wearing a white tshirt and a giant pla