The battles begin once again, nature's forces descending upon us with bitter cold steel drawn naked, prepared to cut. We draw our weapons too, don goose-down armour and hack at frost with scrapers bought at Canadian Tire or makeshift from old Tim Horton's gift cards. We carry shovels like standards into battle, carve out a path through the endless forces of our enemy before they overwhelm entire.
Charging into the wind, pom-poms leveled lance-like at the elements , we press forward. Toques for helms mittens for gauntlets, and thick rubber soled shoes for purchase on home lands turned treacherous in the enemy's icy grip.
Politicians penguin-waddle in parkas and tell us we are prepared, this time. This war will not be like the last, they say. Our forces are organized. . .we will reclaim the frontiers of our streets and sidewalks with clattering monstrous beasts of our own invention that split the night with roars and beeps. I remember that you cannot trust politicians, as I slide sideways on snow-packed roadway, four wheel drive or no.
I am certain this years war, like last year's, will end. But at what cost? How many fenders bent, arms broken, and tears shed at the voidlike blackness of ten in the morning?
Vaguely, I remember a time when this was not a fight. Too young to understand the threat the enemy posed, I embraced it instead. My enemy was then my ally, providing me with ammunition against other, then more important enemies. My enemy and I clutched eachother and shrieked laughter as we slid down hillsides, danced across glistening floors of ice. My enemy could take a form very much like my own, but with a carrot nose, an old scarf, two rocks for eyes. My enemy was my friend.
Is there an opportunity for peace, after all?
Oh Hell no.
