The snow falls harder than the plows can keep up with, and roads are unusually thick in white, with dirty gray cuts, two side-by-side, from the car that bore the person who braved the journey just ahead of me. I know, after five winters here, to stay in the tracks. Stay in the tracks, focus on the road ahead, creep slowly along, feel the road beneath me and respond methodically, never let it surprise me, never make a sudden move, never let down my guard. The quick, guttural reaction is my enemy - for outside of the tracks lies a slippery slope.
This is the how-I-am for now. I stay on my life-track, my mind focused on this day, this task, these people in front of me. I don't veer to Owen's diagnosis, my grandmother's death, my mother's pain; slippery slope-fall, avalanche-shove, flood un-dammed.
I do what the tracks tell me to do (I try to do it with love, although I admit that in certain moments the tracks are dirty gray), and never, ever veer.