 |
| My snowblower, sitting on our sidewalk Photo taken Jan. 3, 2012 |
Dear John:
Remember me? I am your snowblower. I haven't seen you since last March.
I miss you.
We used to spend so much time together. What's happened, John? Have I angered you? Have you found someone else?
I am lonely.
What's going on? I thought this was Michigan! So where's all the snow? What's the deal with all this sun? And "rain," which is simply unfulfilled snow?
I feel angry.
Without snow I am nothing. Without snow my existence has no purpose.
I've started to read Richard Dawkins.
John, I've become the laughing stock of the garage. Yesterday the lawn mowers were mocking me. I have become Job, and acquired his "comforters."
I am a character in Beckett's "Waiting For a Snow."
I'm losing my faith. I question whether "snow" even exists.
I would end it all, if not for these comforting words of Sartre: “The absurd man will not commit suicide; he wants to live, without relinquishing any of his certainty, without a future, without hope, without illusions … and without resignation either. He stares at death with passionate attention and this fascination liberates him."
Substitute 'snowblower' for 'man' and I think you'll get the point.
I've left the garage with its many nihilistic voices and am sitting on the very sidewalk that I've cleaned so many times before.
If you get this note come and start me. We can pretend as if these were the good old days.
Please don't put me back in the garage, or worse yet, in the summer shed.
Your servant,
S.B.
