In November I found a button on the ground. It was a large, black plastic button used to connect one piece of heavy fabric to another piece of heavy fabric. It was a shiny, reflective button and I could see sky in it. I could see birds in it. And I could see a strange woman lurking behind me in it. She wore a blue baseball cap with a blonde ponytail pulled through the back. She tapped me on the shoulder and squealed lets!
I pretended not to notice and continued to watch her through the button. I whispered to the button I can't hear you, and I'm busy, and Leave me alone. But the woman remained behind me, now shuffling her feet back and forth while whistling the theme song to Dallas.
Then I saw more people in the button. Neighbors I hadn't spoken to in months, friends from long ago and my cat's veterinarian. They all tapped me on the shoulder and squealed Lets! They shuffled their feet and whistled the theme song to Dallas.
Through the button I saw snow falling from the sky. Snowman-sized flakes began to blanket the ground around me. I was hunched over and my back ached, but my eyes remained on the button. The shuffling and whistling around me increased. My hands became numb, then turned an eggplant shade of purple, then black. Tiny icicles formed on the edges of my eyes. The shuffling and whistling continued, but the sounds were more muffled. I watched the people through the button. They were shuffling, whistling and smiling at one another. They looked ridiculous. They looked beautiful. I suddenly loved them.
The snow's blinding whiteness, heft, and silence engulfed me. I tried to open my mouth. I tried to say Whistle louder. Shuffle more. I can't hear you. I tried to squeal Let's! But my lips were frozen shut.