On my drive back to Salt Lake City from La Jolla, a rare snowstorm blew through areas of Southern California mere hours after I left town.
It was a straight drive up I-15, and I was driving just fast enough to stay one step ahead of the storm. But as soon as I hit Provo — which is practically considered a distant suburb of Salt Lake City — an avalanche of snow started dumping out of the sky, buckling traffic to a complete standstill.
“Home” was only 40 miles away, yet it took me three hours to make it back to our depressingly empty and cold condo. There were so many wrecked cars along the side of the road that night — but I was almost too numb to react.
When I finally got home, I didn’t even turn on any lights. I layered up with long underwear and my University of Minnesota Golden Gopher sweat pants, and a hooded sweatshirt. Then I climbed into bed.
I left the blinds covering the bedroom window open so I could watch the snow fall out of the pitch-black sky. A light on the side of the building lit up the sky just enough to catch the glimmer of the enormous snowflakes as they gently fell like crystalline confetti. It was undeniably beautiful. But it was just so cold.
