Way back in December, I can remember worrying that it wasn’t snowing enough. Emily hadn’t really seen snow and aside from a few flurries, Boston wasn’t delivering.
So there was actually a time when I wished for the snow, if only so Emily could experience it.
And on December 26th, it came. Beautiful, clean snow covered everything, so deep it came up to our knees and waist.
But, seriously Boston, you can knock it off now. There are snowbanks that have been around since that Boxing Day storm. There are icicles hanging past my window that stretch from one story to the next. I don’t even remember what the world looks like with color.
Last week, there was sunshine on the horizon and the temperature crept past freezing. Water ran, for the first time in ages, and we could hear the sounds of ice sliding from roofs, freeing icelocked homes. Dripping water and signs of color showing through; our long snowed-in winter looked to be ending.
But it was a false comfort, a hope that did not deliver. This morning I woke up and the snow is falling thicker and faster than it has in a while, shades of that first storm that came after Christmas day.
We don’t know if the snow will end. Or if Spring will ever come. We don’t know if we will ever see the sun again.
All we know is that the world is made of snow.