Winter in Rhode Island doesn’t give a fuck if this is your first New England winter and you’re a southerner who (admittedly) can’t fucking deal. It’s a Monday in February, and I see a snowflake so big it reminds me of the fake ones we used to make in my fourth grade art class in rural Mississippi. We would fold crisp sheets of white paper into rectangles and cut triangles into the sides. But cutting snowflakes was more than just southern escapist origami, it was, in fact, a common thing we did beneath tables during tornadoes or torrential downpours of rain and hail. A subtle response to crisis–to things that made us feel helpless, like inclement weather. Not unlike quilting or knitting or smoking bogies. My mom did all three.