park it.

About a week ago, I tripped over a chair. To be fair, it was sitting on the street about two feet away from the curb and I was scrolling through the artists on my iPod. I walked away unharmed, intact, but puzzled about the placement of the faded green wooden chair. But it was snowing and cold and I was too nervous about school to think about the chair.

On my way from the T four days ago, I noticed another chair on the sidewalk, a neon pink camping chair that folds sorta like a tripod and is carried in a nylon bag. I’ve accumulated hundreds of hours sitting in identical chairs on camping trips and at ball games, and because it’s an outdoorsy chair, I thought, “There have been a striking number of birds nesting in and fluttering about our neighborhood, so…?” But it was dark and snowing, and I’ve been watching The Wire and am therefore afraid of everything, especially in the dark, and especially in the dark when my vision is compromised by snow. So I hurried home.

Such heavy snowfall in Boston has left little space on the streets. My neighborhood is comprised of a long, narrow road that loops, most of which is one-way. Cars drive too fast, typically, and too close to the curb. As the snow has encroached on the already modest street space, drivers have gotten more aggressive and more territorial, as demonstrated by Old Smoker Guy’s inability to wait for Middle-Aged Lady to back out of her driveway. He tried to hop the curb, but his sedan couldn’t make it past the preliminary snow bank.

Given the median-like snow stacked along the street, too many drivers and cars have been displaced. Instead of parking bumper to bumper, vehicles are separated by five-foot snow banks. And all I can think about is when they’ll melt and how the whole street will sound like water.

It snowed a bit on Sunday, and watching it from inside my home (still freezing, btw) was beautiful. Unexpected winds dove in and blew the snow off the flat New England roofs, shaking loose a gorgeous, dancing dust. The downside, I suppose, is that the city of Boston requires us to shovel all that beauty within a certain time frame.

I don’t mind shoveling the snow, so I’ve taken care of it since I got home. My roommate J, who I’ve tried to like but just really don’t, doesn’t think she should shovel snow because “I’ve done it once before already.” Well I’ve done it five times, so zip it. The point is that I tucked my sweats into my boots, slipped my gloves on, and grabbed the shovel.

For some reason at 3 p.m. this Sunday, the streets were absolutely deserted. No bodies, no cars, just snow. And chairs.

Chairs.

White plastic lawn chair. Broken bar stool. Navy square-back wooden chair. Neon pink camping chair. Wooden footstool. Markers. Chairs near the curb, not always on all fours, but staking claim to the precious blacktop.