Made it to the airport.  I'm looking out the window at my plane right now.  The sun is out, lighting up its white flanks.  Underneath its belly, the snow is dyed in puce from all the chemicals needed to make it air-worthy.  In a way, it looks as if the beast soiled itself, but I'm so relieved to be here, staring at my ticket home, that the plane still glows like a heroic beauty to me.  I called nearly twenty taxi services before finding an overpriced airport shuttle that said it was no problem and they were on their way.  I told the dispatcher to not let the driver attempt accessing our street.  I would meet him on Dorchester Avenue.  The intersection, however, was also impassable, thanks to a taxi driver who had tried a side street and found himself in need of Triple A.  The shuttle driver called me and said to meet him at the end of the block, where he was waiting with a white van.  That white van was the glow of heaven, my light at the end of the tunnel.  I called him my saint.  He nodded and said it was no problem.  But there were problems, I wanted to say, and he rescued me.  On the way to the airport he asked what I was doing in Boston.  "It's a great city," he said.  "Lots of jobs.  A good place to be if you are looking for a job."  I smiled and closed my eyes.  He couldn't have understood, had I allowed myself to laugh.