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What the Winter Recalls
Winters in the Wasatch were mythical things, a time for all that was brown and rusted, piled up and forgotten (stowed away for a “what if” time that would very likely never come) to be gloriously veiled in sparkling white. A lower-middle class neighborhood could look picturesque then, its tin-roofed sheds shining just as bright as the estates on the hills.
The magic of that one, simple exchange of nature held a promise for the breadth of imagination that could change an entire life from what it was…to what it wasn’t.
Everyone is rich who has dimmed lights, a Christmas tree, and soft music.
The first snow of winter crept slowly in, fell through the night in a hush.
“Wake up! It snowed!” My sister whispered. I sprung from my bed in a rush.
Nose pressed to glass, I peered out to see our world transformed in sleep.
Every branch lined in white, every roof crowned with snow. Yesterday buried deep.
We braved the porch barefoot, watching our breath. Letting the cold work its will.
“I dare you to run out,” my sister would call. I did it then, and I’d do it still.
For the snow has lessons for young and old, and a child doesn’t mind the cold.
