Snow swarms in the air and the earth huddles beneath us. We shuffle in the cold that holds us like great hands. A sister sings Ave Maria, the notes shivering a little. At last there’s the blessing and silence, a train away from the dead. In the warmth of our apartment, we take off our clothes and lie by the window, holding each other. The snow is like a painting by Pissarro, where all things are made from a single point. We cannot see the street.