On A Snow: Finally

We have lived here for three years now. This is the first time I have seen a true snow fall. A light and large and wet snow. One that comes down softly and quietly. One that when the wind blows streaks your vision to nothing more than a white wall, with it's impenetrable thickness that recedes only when the wind dies and there is nothing more than a soft snow falling.

It falls light and large. It has covered the ground and left me longing for days gone by. When school would be cancelled and I would jump off of roofs into drifts deeper than my imagination. Today it was a quick shovel and off to work, stuck in the amalgam of inept drivers and white precipitation turned a muddy brown. Black roads and salted cars. And a white wall moving alongside me in a mocking blur.

Isaac played in the snow today. Crawled around the swingset in the backyard. Scoffed at the snow that fell in and around his mouth. His imagination is still young and light. Though I have no doubt it is large. That beyond his sight, his imagination was able to penetrate the white wall of swirling and tumbling whiteness. That, perhaps, he saw into an ancient past that, when laid out before him, showed him the eras of children and adults playing much like he was. Scoffing and cold, laughing and crawling. But perhaps, in his youth, he merely understood that before him was something very special, and something very much for him to enjoy. Something very simple.

We have lived here for three years now. This is the first time I have seen a true snow fall. A light and large and wet snow. One that comes down softly and quietly. One that when the wind blows streaks your vision to nothing more than a white wall, with it's impenetrable thickness that may never recede for me.

But out there, in my large and amalgamated world, I know where there is a simple, soft snow falling.