The Great Surrender

One sunny, temperate late-April afternoon more than a decade ago, I make the roughly 26-mile drive from Livingston, Montana, the small town of 7,000 people where I live, to the nearby city of Bozeman, because I have an appointment to get a bikini wax. When I leave the appointment an hour later, the air is thick, heavy, the sky darkening to the color of dishwater, and all signs point to rain. But my then-boyfriend, now-husband, is coming home from a trip that evening, so I ignore the ominous weather, because I want to buy some candles before he arrives. By the time I emerge from the store, snow has begun to fall. Now I know that when the sky starts glowering like this, it’s safest to prepare for the worst, but at the time I anticipate a light dusting. It’s late spring, after all. Unconcerned, I get in my car.