Although almost every television outlet has adopted “Snowmageddon” as the correct noun to use when describing the end of the world by snow, personally, I favor “Snowpocalypse.” Call me old-fashioned, but when I look out on the Siberian landscape we call home, I think apocalyptic thoughts. I think “We’re will be trapped here. We will die and the dogs will eat us.”
Garry and I discussed it last night. It was a loud conversation, not because of any disagreement, but because he had removed his hearing aids.
“We have to get better,” he suggested, referring to the Cold That Will Not Go Away.
“Or we could die,” I pointed out.
“Thanks for that image,” he said.
That was when he suggested the dogs would probably eat us. I thought it possible Owen might notice our non-communicative state before we fully rotted. If not, then the smell.
“Also,” I pointed out, “We might not get better, and we might NOT die. We could just stay like this. Forever. Coughing, wheezing, sneezing. While the snow turns glacial and consumes the house and us with it.”
“It sucks,” said Garry.
“Definitely sucks,” I agreed.
Then we went to bed. To sleep, perchance to dream. With the hope that morning would bring a better day.