The Myth of Wile E

White Elephant in a Snowstorm

The first snow of winter came along and dusted everything. All the valley was covered in a sheet of white as gleaming as a fresh sheet of paper. Perfect. Nothing but possibility.

It was like the world wanted to begin all over again and write itself a new story. As The Writing Bug said, "Always start with a clean copy."

I put on a pair of boots that had been tenderized by a dozen winters, and took a walk on the stumpy expanse that used to be the Little Valley. It was the kind of snow that squeaked underfoot, the way a pinch of cornstarch squeaks between your fingers. Squeak, squeak, squeak. My bootprints looked like fat exclamation points stamped across the sheet of snow, as if to say, Here I was! Here I was! Here!

An hour later, they were all erased again, blotted out and smoothed over.

Once again my world was a blank sheet of paper. Or, a drawing of a white elephant in a snowstorm.

I flopped on my back, creating a me-shaped impression in the snow.

I swooshed my arms and legs in big arcs, turning the me-crater into a snow angel. (Or, a snow Vitruvian Man, as I'd prefer to think of it.)

Finally, I got up to admire my work.

I stood there for a few minutes, watching as the falling snow got busy whiting out all my efforts, and I thought about how lucky Sisyphus was, really, to have his boulder.

How lucky Wile E. was, to have (but not have) the Roadrunner.

How lucky I was, to have (and be had by) my white elephant.

And then I went back inside, to feed it.