She can be here, in this place. She can live this solitude existence and she once thought it was even what she wanted: to be lost in the brilliant white world, silent, vast, overwhelming. The snow falls outside again. Still. Always. She has been stranded in her home since 5p the night before. The roads surely won't be cleared any time soon. That's what she gets for living in the country. That's what she gets for stubbornly driving home last night instead of taking up the offered invitations-- spoken or otherwise.
Half of her is glad for the quiet, the solace and the chance to get some things done. Some time by herself. The other half is angry at her pride and her lack of 4-wheel drive. Laying on her bed, the phone by her side, she stares out the window.
The snow falls heavier still.
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