Snow appeared like alms that Thursday, freshly minted coins that glinted in the headlights’ glow, the long miles home through that blizzard flung, reckless, atop April’s blooms. The highway had closed, no one on the road save us. All broadcasts announced makeshift shelters in churches—I begged you to stop. You would not. When we hit a slick spot, when the car spun out, I counted each flash of the rail past my window—three, four—shouted pump the brakes. In those slow moments, I saw each plump flake that burdened the trees. I watched the median rise, white leviathan, white sea. The whole time, you screamed, I’m sorry I killed you. I cannot shake those words. I wound them tight to replace the dim thread that unspooled from me when, even as your body cooled among the mounting drifts, I still believed that we would weather death.