She Doesn't Understand

She clings to the cold fence, chain links scraping her dry hand, even inside this glove. The fingers are tense.

She never thought that she would be one of these, who's worst fears included teenagers. Teenagers, loss of hearing. Slipping on the ice.

She remembers how the snow used to be so beautiful, falling outside of her window, or the window of the car she used to drive back in 1966, when she was young and the snow remained a challenge to be met. Careening through plowed bumps, skidding to a stop, sometimes missing the mark. Laughing, laughing at the adrenaline that pumped through her heart, short of breath, stuck in the intersection.

She remembered when these storms were fascinating, wonderful, and how, with lovers she would lie and stare out of their windows, wrapped in sheets and the warm bodies would twitch and they strained to watch the snow fall.

She inches along the metal handrail, shuffling her feet, looking for the black ice. It's melting now, which is good, she thinks.

But it is hard to see. Her worn tennis shoes are soaking up, her feet are numb, her knees hurt. They don't hurt, they burn and ache. They creak. They are no longer fluid, these aren't the knees that ran and jumped and danced all night. These are the knees that carried babies around, up and down stairs. These aren't the knees that shy boys kissed as they sat in the grass. What happened to my body, she wonders?

When the most terrifying thing is a snow storm.
When the thought of leaving the house and slipping on the front steps becomes your biggest fear.
When you aren't ready to get out.