Snow Day

There are moments when time morphs.   It takes on a different dimension for a minute, an hour, an entire morning.  We awoke Saturday to a bright white world of snow.  I pulled the red currant danishes out of the freezer.  I had been saving them, much to my husband's dismay, for a morning just like this.  They were sweet and tart and the summer sun warmed the back of neck as we gazed out of our dining room windows.

We pulled on wool socks, snow pants, boots, coats, gloves and hats.  The kids and I stepped outside - Where was that sled again?  We stomped around the yard, poking the shovel into snow piles only to find a piece of wood or nothing again and again.  I had seen it not too long ago, when Sylvan was sitting in it, pretending to be in a boat.  I finally discovered it leaning up against a raised garden bed, hidden under the snow.

Now we were finally ready to go.

I ran down the street,
dragging the sled behind,

over curbs,
past the grave yard,

around icy curves,
to the park.

It felt good.

We swung and slid,

romped and rolled,

and desperately tried to pack the snow into something more than a tiny ball.

We walked around the neighborhood, taking a tour of massive giant snow men along the way, and finally back home, where my inability to pack a snow ball, yielded a monster.

Our fingers cold, noses red, thoroughly wet we finally stepped back inside.  As we pealed off our layers and hung them to dry in front of the furnace I glanced at the kitchen clock. 1:00.  No wonder my little man was suddenly a blubbering puddle at my feet.

As I put lunch on the stove, a snow monster glinted through the kitchen window, the only reminder of the hours that turned to minutes and our morning that disappeared into snowy laughter.