Woke up to the sound of bones rattling. The sound of dying. Hadad the weather god is pissed off at me for dismissing winter. I get it.
That’s not my car that the limb of a tree crashed onto.
My son has locked the ice scrapers in the trunk.
I walk tentatively, gingerly like my ancient mother across the slippery, slithery earth. The streetcars are lined up, immobilized. The buses–I don’t see any.
A convenience store is open before nine and stocked with ice scrapers. Back I go, slipping and vulnerable, past the fallen trees to my car.
I take pleasure in cracking my old Bimmer out of its ice shell. I must. I’ve promised to cross the city to spend a few precious hours with my daughter. Baking cookies, the plan is.
Hadad the weather god stands guard in the Pergamon, in Berlin. Unmoving. You will get your ice, your snow, your cold. You will get your winter. You will get your measure of light.
Climate change, Hadad?
He frowns. Or is that a smile?
All over the city people are without electricity.
My daughter and I sit together, keeping warm, talking about the future.
Fuck you Hadad. Sorry, I meant to say, thank you, Hadad.