My four year old is a random trekking companion. But two days ago, we walked for miles through the snow paths and side streets of the South Hill, while Gavin told a story of an avalanche that buried cars and houses and trees. 

Groups of young men with shovels were moving up and down the hill, digging people’s cars out, and excavating driveways. We watched any number of cars get stuck, and neighbors come running out to push and pull and get them on their way. It was the best of us, and the world hushed and beautiful. 

At dusk, he told me to stop and then said, “We’re blue. Everything is blue.” And he was right, the winter light had blued the maples, a guy with a snow blower, the bungalow houses, and both of us, in our boots in the middle of the road. We stood admiring the unlikely day—the way that everything had come to a solemn halt—and then we meandered down another side street, stalled a bit longer as the blue blackened around us.