To press snooze on a snow day still feels divine. All night the smell of burning garlic and onions wafted through the house, disturbing my sleep. Someone had put the slow cooker on high and I woke to find steaming black mush clinging to the side of the pot – the ground beef was suffocated of all its soft pinkness from the night before. I closed the lid. On the patio the snow towered clean and white like snow always does. I imagined heaving the burnt pile of beef and onions out the door to scatter across the milk-colored grass. Next door my neighbors’ shovels scraped the sidewalk diligently. How had they risen to face the cold so early? Did the snowflakes whirling on the other side of the glass door fall from the sky, or did they skate off of heavy branches to dance toward the ground one last time? I carried my first mug of coffee back to my room, closing the curtains before turning on the computer. The Word document glows a dirty white beneath fingerprint smudges and dust. It comforts me more than the icy layers that sparkle outside. I hide inside white walls as the tiny green buds must hide beneath the snow a few days more. We haven’t wings like the bold robins that will fearlessly cut through the last of the winter air. I don’t want to shovel snow today.