My terrier waits next to me on the landing. I zip up my parka and pull up my hood, winding the leash around my wrist. I yawn.
I open the door, allowing the dog to pass me as we step outside. The cold air meets my face, and I keep my head down until I reach the front walk. I glance upward. Big mistake. I wince and crinkle my unprotected eyes. Snow blindness.
I hurry the dog along to the yard. I try to find areas to gaze at besides the snow-covered grass, snow-covered street, snow-covered cars. My eyesight fills with sparkles, my retina rebelling against the assault. I gratefully stare at the split-rail fence, the brown board soothing, a way to pass the minutes. My terrier empties the canisters and I turn around. I waste no time shuffling back inside, back to the warmth, back to the dark. I’m awake now.