The Weight of White

Arthur rolled onto his back. The ceiling was just a deeper shade of black than the rest of the room. Two AM. Always two AM. Always the damn ticking of the old grandfather clock downstairs, a rhythm that used to annoy Martha but now just felt like the only thing keeping time in a house that otherwise forgot what it was. He sighed, a raspy sound that snagged in his throat. Couldn’t sleep. Not with the wind scratching at the windows like some starved thing wanting in.

He pushed himself up, his old bones popping like dry kindling. Pulled on a faded flannel shirt, jeans stiff with age, then the heavy wool sweater Martha had knitted him what felt like a hundred years ago. Always kept him warm. Always. He shuffled to the window, pushed aside the thin curtain. Outside, the world was gone. Buried. The streetlights bled fuzzy halos into a thick, swirling white. Snow. And it was coming down hard. Silent, too. That’s what always got him. How something so heavy could make such a quiet landing.

He made his way downstairs, not bothering with lights. The house creaked around him, settling. Each groan a ghost. He brewed coffee, black as tar, the only way he took it. Sat at the kitchen table, looking out the back door, watching the yard disappear under the white blanket. The old shed, the leaning fence, the bird feeder Martha loved. All softened, rounded, made new and strange. He drank the coffee slow, letting the heat bloom in his gut. A sudden urge, a need for air. Not just any air, but that cold, clean, quiet air.

He pulled on his work boots, scuffed and worn, smelling of earth and oil, then his heavy canvas coat. Grabbed the old shovel from the porch. Didn't know why. Just did. Stepped out. The porch light, a weak yellow eye, barely pierced the falling curtain. The cold hit him like a fist, sucking the breath right out of his lungs. But it wasn't a bad cold. It was clean. It shocked him awake. He watched the flakes drift, big, lazy things, each one unique, he guessed, though he’d never really looked close enough to tell.

He walked off the porch, boots crunching on the thin layer already there. The driveway was untouched, a vast expanse of white. He started to shovel, not with any real purpose, just pushing the light, fresh powder aside. Back and forth. The scrape of the shovel against the concrete was the only sound for a moment, then it was swallowed up by the falling snow. He worked for a while, the rhythmic motion a dull comfort. His breath plumed in front of him, little clouds vanishing into the larger white.

He stopped, leaning on the shovel handle, his chest heaving a bit. The streetlights were just smudges now. The houses across the way, their lights mostly dark, seemed impossibly far away. It was just him. The snow. The quiet. That particular quiet, the one that presses in, dense and heavy, filling every space. It wasn't empty quiet. It was full. Full of everything unsaid, everything lost, everything that was and never would be again. He thought of Martha, her laugh. Not the bright one from their youth, but the low, tired chuckle she’d had towards the end, when her strength was fading like a summer day. He remembered her hands, always busy, always warm. Now, only the shovel was warm, from the friction of his own grip.

He pictured her, sitting in her favorite armchair, watching the first snow of the season. She’d always called it "God’s own hush." Said it made the world stop for a bit, made you listen. He hadn’t really listened back then. Too busy with work, with bills, with the endless grind of a life that felt like it demanded everything and gave precious little back. He wished he’d listened more. Wished he’d just sat there, quiet, beside her, feeling the hush together. Now, he sat in it alone. The quiet was a punch to the gut.

He let go of the shovel, letting it clatter softly against the pavement. He tilted his head back, letting the cold, wet flakes kiss his face. They melted instantly, tracing cold tears down his leathery cheeks. No one around to see. No one to care. Just the infinite, falling white. He wasn't crying, not really. It was just the cold, just the damn snow. But his throat felt tight, a knot of something he couldn’t name. He closed his eyes, for a long moment, letting the world disappear completely behind his eyelids, letting the quiet press down, down, down.

When he opened them again, the world was still white, still falling. The outline of his neighbor's old pickup truck was barely visible now, a hump under a growing mound. The snow didn't stop for anyone. Didn't wait. He bent down, picked up a handful of the pristine stuff. It was so cold it burned, then melted to water in his palm. He squeezed it, watched the water run between his fingers, pointless, like everything else. He knew he should go back inside, back to the too-big house, back to the two AM, but the thought of it made his chest ache. He just stood there, watching the snow fall, feeling the immense, crushing silence. He wondered if this was what peace felt like, or just the deepest kind of quiet. He stood there, just stood there.