The house quiets because the children are in bed. I consider going myself, as I get dreamy watching the shadows of snowflakes bounce and fly on the wall. One seemed to come descend inside, and then they all fall faster and fatter, and distorted through window glass they look more like a fifty Nerf gun attack.
Every year when we get our first real snow, to me it's like the first time all over again. Something new. Something saved, too, because it's all enveloped in white. That's especially the feeling when it comes on days like today, as I recover from the previous evening's too many loads of laundry and floors to wash in too many rooms after the littlest one puked everywhere.
It's like the new door on the house on our block. Currently, empty apartments and boarded up homes number more than those that are not. One house has been under major renovations on the inside but you cannot tell from first glance. You couldn't until today. I cannot believe the difference a door can make. It isn't my taste, but it also isn't quite the piece of junk landlords will slap on only when it's absolutely imperative for their own sake that a door be replaced. Is something new really happening?
Though I'm always dreaming about what's to come, no matter the time of year, I'm also no stranger to despair. I need pictures like the snow cover to mirror my heavy prayers and then quiet me with hope. I know the snow will melt away, and not before it's soppy and sullied! Winter only lasts so long, and even spring has rain. Still, I ache for a sweeping in to cover, cover. Recover. Whiten, lighten, hush.
And make new.
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