The ice storm in 1998 hit Maine during Christmas break. Home from college you and I were suddenly kept apart by mother nature herself instead of just distance. Whose idea was it to flee southern Maine for the mountains? Tucked together in my mother's green Subaru we drove snowmobile trails to avoid downed power lines and sang along to the radio, windows down. We arrived at Sugarloaf to find the resort all but abandoned and were able to rent a condo for nearly nothing. It felt like some grown up dream. As though you and I had a future together instead of series of short affairs in between other relationships and trips home from school.
We built a fire and held each other while the storm covered the state in ice so thick it looked like glass. A reflection of what life might have been in the cards had been dealt differently.