Tell Me, Clarice: Have the Assholes Stopped Screaming?

The First Time It Snowed

I remember the way the snow crunched under my steps. I remember how tight the cold air felt in my lungs. I remember how beautiful everything looked, covered in white, brought into stark relief by the surrounding night. But what I remember the most about my first snow was how quiet it was, how perfectly silent everything was -- no traffic noise, no birds chirping, no trees creaking as they swayed -- just me, breathing, and the stars humming in the firmament.

Nope.

I still lack a flair for the poetic.

Today, I was reading Al Wiggins's "Was It Quiet Like This?"* and it made me put pixel to monitor in an effort to describe the quietest moment I could recall. I don't think that's the kind of reflection he was trying to inspire, but a line of his stuck with me and pushed me to see if I could capture that moment from my childhood and what was essential about it. I couldn't, but that's okay. I knew going in I wouldn't come close to this:

These holiday mornings when nobody
gets up at the right time to do what they do.

so there's nothing out there if you're the one
on the street. Even the assholes are peaceful.

In my defense, Al Wiggins is a poet. Also -- and let's not downplay this -- I've never experienced a peace like that.

*Yes, I read The Paris Review. No, I don't skip the poety. Yes, you may fuck yourself if you've got something to say about that.