We were driving North on 128.
The windshield wipers squeaked loudly
as they pushed off the heavy snow.
It was snowing hard. Through the windshield, the lights of other cars
were a diffused glow amidst the thick snow flurries.
It was very cold.

My mother was concentrating on the road,
and we didn't talk much.


Uncle Roger File 3: Terminals by Judy Malloy
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