In July 2026, a mound of black snow in North York, Ontario, resists heatwaves to maintain the status quo from the big snowstorm of December 2025. Although I used to live in the area, I haven’t seen this miracle. I just read about it on Instagram.
It nurtures debris from months past and refuses to give in. No sunshine warms its heart. No kind love stirs its grimy core. What exactly is it holding onto anyway? It’s definitely not a pretty sight anymore, although it must have been when it was still fresh and white and squishy.
Does this stubborn hardening point to all the hurt caused by its environment? Or is it mere resistance to changing a way of being and stepping out of comfort? Or is it not wanting to acknowledge what it’s known all along? That snow, like heartache, is meant to melt away over time and processing.
