Snow

Outside my window the snow is lovely. The sunlight reflects on it, brightening my room. Like a true Southern child I want to gallivant in this white stuff that I don't understand.

But I won't. I'll eye it warily as I traipse off to class, wishing for the thaws, which are months away. Wishing that we could get the snow, the slush, and the slipperiness over with, so I don't have to be afraid.

I'm afraid of snow. There you have it. Twenty-one years old, backpacked across Europe, slept in sketchy hostels, been to Underground Atlanta past nine pm. I am afraid of snow.

And that fear is never going to go away. No matter how long I live in the north, and adjust to the snow. No matter how many pairs of boots, and ice-picks for my shoes, and how much rock salt. I will always be afraid that one day I will fall.

People here don't understand that. They laugh at me, because it is just snow. But it's also ice. They haven't seen how one fall can change my life for months, years at a time. It was this way in Atlanta before the first fall. I hope I don't have to injure myself to prove the point again.

I have every right to be afraid of snow. I'll get used to it. Stop talking about it. I may go years safely plodding along. But I will always be afraid. When you've got a disability there are certain fears that live in the back of your brain every day, fears that no one else understands.

That's one of mine. Snow.