Summer 2006 • Vol. XXVIII No. 3 Fiction |

Snow Blind

What I'm about to tell you happened in a place with no beginnings, a place of snow and cold, where for months at a time the days cycle with hardly a blink of acknowledgment from the sun. Maybe if I told my story to the men from Washington or the lawyers from Seattle, I'd say, "Yeah, well, I guess maybe things started with the sucker punch at Hank's bar." And they would hear "sucker punch" and think, oh, that's the beginning. Men like them love to count time, almost as much as they like to count dollars. They've been counting like that since, they think, the beginning. But up here, we know that life has been happening for as long as the snow has been falling, which is to say a long, long time, and we're not foolish enough to think that we can touch the beginning. If I tried to explain it to them, I'd say, "Even a sucker punch doesn't come from nowhere." They might understand that. It's very white up here because it snows, on average, thirty-eight feet each year. Everything is cove

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Bridget Bentz Sizer lives in Baltimore with her husband and two children. She is a website editor for National Public Radio. Her short stories have appeared in The North American Review and Other Voices.

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