'The Below Zeros' by Kirsten Mosher

No one knows exactly what is going on inside my father’s body. It’s past time for finding out and fixing. Bones are crumbling. His Brain—delirium piled on dementia resting on layers of denial. He is nearing the end of his Hospice six-months. Probably won’t have to renew.

New year. The below zeros. Snow cover. It’s what it sounds like. Stone cold gentle. Soft blow to the—wouldn’t hear it piling up if you didn’t know what to look for. Lands you in another world.

Six new inches land on eight old inches. HIs frail body mostly covered. I would take a picture of the sheet of white and leave out the pine trees, turkey tracks, edge of the road and any traces of the human—for scale.