Untitled; unfinished

It's a snow day. There is no snow outside my frost glazed window. There is fresh homework plopped down on my sister's head, and her hands are not bitten and sliced by Jack Frost, but rather they are clenched around the family tablet, a pencil listlessly scrawling topic sentences and supporting details.

Sixty words in French lie forgotten on my bedside table. My mother speaks avidly of going outside, but there is so much to do. And procrastinating is like a balloon with a hole in the center: you throw it and catch it, making a little progress as the wind dutifully lifts it a tad higher, but eventually, it will fall. Soon, the method does not work, and I get desperate, brushing off basic necessities and remembering how I left my textbook at school, expectant that school would resume the next day. It did not.

Now, I wait as my postponed English exam files slowly into my inbox. We weren't even supposed to have exams, too much stress, the head of school said. Tell that to four out of six of my teachers. The show must go on. I bid you adieu. Loose leaf paper and disappointment is all I amount to now.