A facebook friend chastises us about complaining about the blizzard in March. I take her point. It is March in Vermont. I can’t remember an April that I lived here without at least one major storm, let alone March. I don’t think its the timing of the storm as much as the steady consistency of this winter that has gotten to us. 30F sounds almost as impossible as 30C right now.

I look at the pace of it coming down, almost like rain, nothing lazy about this snow. There is a lot of it to get out so it is really just being efficient. From certain angles it looks as if the grey white sky itself is falling.

Today it feels that way.

About midway into my morning I learned that we hadn’t struck a deal to sell our house in Shelburbia. There was a certain easy symmetry to the deal that made it feel like a door opening rather than closing, a waving on of our move. Our house would be loved, by lovely people who we already knew. We would take a bit of a hit on the price, but would get to sign an offer without showings or marketing, or worrying. So everybody wins. But instead it didn’t go through. So the real estate train has to move ahead on its track and hopefully get us to the station on time. With not so many goldfish on the floor.

The literal train was next. Our plan to visit my mother in New York via the Vermonter is cancelled along with school. We can rebook, she can fly in, but the mental picture of dinners and planetariums and being tended to by someone else has to be shelved for a while.

The biggest heartbreak came yesterday when I passed on the report from the structural engineer that I hired to the town offices and the town determined that they needed to tear down our bridge. I never got up the nerve to read the report. It came with an ominous email that let me know there were significant safety concerns. We had already decided to move away. So I tapped some other neighbors to be bridge cheerleaders, and sent on the report sight unread.

Having conquered my fears twice and crossed the bridge, been there for its conception, construction, and celebration it is a literal and symbolic loss. Of course safety trumps good feelings, but wracking my brain I can’t remember a single structural engineer that does think the sky is falling. Because they didn’t design the structure to hold it up.

The snow still comes down in its train stopping sky falling way.

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Anna Rosenblum Palmer is a freelance writer based in Denver, CO. She writes about sex, parenting, cat pee, bi-polar disorder and the NFL; all things inextricably intertwined with her mental health. In her free time she teaches her boys creative swear words, seeks the last missing puzzle piece and thinks deeply about how she is not exercising. Her writing can be found on Babble, Parent.co, Great Moments in Parenting, Ravishly, Good Men Project, Sammiches and Psych Meds, Playpen, Crazy Good Parent, and YourTango. She also does a fair amount of navel gazing on her own blog at annarosenblumpalmer.com.

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